UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 
LIBRARY 


Oct.  6. '46  X 

^ 
Oo>ninguez  Ranch  House 


A. 
Temple  Ranch  Houke 


Stockton  route       

'Array  of  California 
Fremont  route       

— Sc&U  of  Miles- 


The  land  of  Vie  Dons  and  the  places  mentioned  in  the  story 


THE   DONS 


OF  THE 


OLD    PUEBLO 


By 

PERCIVAL  J.  COONEY 


RAND   McNALLY  &  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  NEW  YORK 


112411 


Copyright,  1914 
BT  RAMP.  MCNALLT  &  COMUJCT 


C  ktcato 


vs 
35o5 


A' 


THE  PREFACE 

S  has  been  said  of  another  and  a  better  historical 
novel,  "  To  the  historian  this  tale  may  seem  but 
an  idle  romance ;  to  the  lover  of  romance,  but  the  mar 
shaled  incidents  of  history." 

Be  that  as  it  may,  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  love 
the  smiling  vales  and  azure  skies  of  the  Golden  State 
there  will  ever  be  a  throb  of  kindly  sympathy  for  the 
gentle,  chivalrous  race  that  once  lived  a  life  of 
Arcadian  simplicity  amid  these  scenes  now  tumultuous 
^  with  the  myriad  activities  of  modern  civilization. 
^  That  we  failed  to  understand  them,  and  they  us, 
was  neither  their  fault  nor  ours,  but  due  to  differences 
deep  down  in  the  natures  of  both  races.  In  the  last  war 
with  Mexico,  and  the  acquisition  of  California,  much  is 
there  that  the  American  of  to-day  would  fain  forget,  and 
much  that  we  can  remember  now  with  pride.  And 
of  the  latter  not  the  least  is  the  gallant,  hopeless 
effort  of  a  people,  struggling  against  overwhelming  odds 
to  hold  the  land  of  their  fathers. 

Soon,  very  soon,  are  we  to  come  into  much  closer 
contact  with  the  peoples  of  the  Latin  nations  to  the 
south.  Well,  indeed,  will  it  be  for  us,  and  for  them, 
if  we  remember  that  we  are  not  better, — not  superior, 
— only  different.  Our  Viking  vigor  is  not  theirs ;  neither 
are  their  virtues  ours. 

In  all  that  pertains  to  modern  industrialism  the 
Anglo-Celt  will  lead,  as  he  has  done  for  centuries. 
But  much  may  he  learn  from  the  Latin  races  of  kind 
liness  of  heart  and  speech,  of  poiseful  dignity,  of  the 
graceful,  gentler  art  of  living. 

THE  AUTHOR 
Los  Angeles,  May  I,  1914 


THE  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

I.  THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW 9 

II.  LIEUTENANT  JOHN  CARROLL 21 

III.  A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK 30 

IV.  THE  SON  OF  LEO  THE  STRANGER       ....  42 
V.  ENGLAND'S  AGENT 56 

VI.  MARSHALL'S  WARNING 71 

VII.  A  SOLDIER'S  WOOING 81 

VIII.  "COMO  TE  AMO,  AMAME" 92 

IX.  THE  SONS  OF  ANCIENT  SPAIN 97 

X.  THE  CLANK  OF  CHAINS 105 

XI.  THE  COURIERS  OF  THE  NIGHT 112 

XII.  WAR 117 

XIII.  "SONS  OF  THE  LAND,  AWAKE!" 124 

XIV.  THE  BLACK  MATADOR 133 

XV.  THE  CAPTAIN'S  DEFIANCE 148 

XVI.  THE  RACE  FOR  THE  HILLTOP 159 

XVII.  THE  MIDNIGHT  SORTIE 168 

XVIII.  THE  FAITH  OF  SERVOLO  PALERA       .     .     .     .176 

XIX.  THE  SNARL  OF  THE  WOLF       .  • 194 

XX.  AN  UNKNOWN  FRIEND 205 

XXI.  THE  CANNON  OF  THE  SENORA 212 

XXII.  THE  "CABALLADA"  OF  DON  JOSE  ANTONIO      .  227 

XXIII.  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  VICTORS 235 

XXIV.  THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  DARK 249 

7 


8  THE   CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

XXV.  VANUELA  STRIKES 262 

XXVI.  "THE  END  is  NOW  IN  SIGHT" 275 

XXVII.  THE  TERROR  OF  THE  SCAFFOLD 290 

XXVIII.  THE  DREAM  OF  JOSE  EL  RUFO 300 

XXIX.  AT  THE  "PASO  DE  BARTOLO" 312 

XXX.  THE  LAST  STAND  OF  THE  CABALLERO    .     .     .  325 

XXXI.  "SHE  SHALL  PRAY  FOR  YOUR  DEATH"  .     .     .341 

XXXII.  BY  THE  GIANT  OAK 355 

XXXIII.  AT  THE  DEVIL'S  ROCK 371 

XXXIV.  AN  HONORABLE  PEACE 386 

XXXV.  AT  CAHUENGA  PASS 401 

XXXVI.  THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SHADOW 420 

EPILOGUE 431 


DON  JOSE  ANTONIO  ARILLO 


THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   FACE   AT  THE   WINDOW 

LEARER  and  clearer  came  the  ringing  bugle 
notes,  the  rattle  of  kettledrums,  the  clank 
of  artillery,  and  the  low  tumult  of  many  marching 
feet. 

Over  the  adobe-built  pueblo  of  Los  Angeles 
brooded  a  strange  stillness.  Neither  resistance 
nor  welcome  marked  the  invasion.  The  city  was 
silent,  but  it  seemed  an  incidental  rather  than  an 
awed  quietude,  as  if  the  sleepy  pueblo  had  pro 
longed  its  midday  siesta  far  into  the  evening  hour. 
It  was  the  twelfth  day  of  August,  1846;  Stockton 
and  Fremont  were  leading  their  dusty  columns 
against  an  apathetic  community  which  believed 
little  harm  would  come  with  the  advent  of  the 
American  flag. 

Neither  spirit  nor  material  was  there  left  in  the 
city  for  even  a  show  of  resistance,  the  ragged 
levies  of  the  governor  were  disbanded,  the  Indians 
and  peons  had  betaken  themselves  to  the  hills 
above  the  plaza,  and  while  a  few  of  the  more 
timorous  among  the  genie  de  razon  had  left 
quietly  for  their  country  ranches,  the  majority 


io  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

had  remained  in  the  pueblo  and  were  now  gathered 
at  casement  and  window,  awaiting  with  curiosity 
the  coming  of  the  Americans. 

With  the  older  men,  though  occasionally  might 
be  heard  a  word  of  regret  at  the  passing  of  Mexican 
sovereignty,  there  was  generally  a  calm  accept 
ance  of  a  conquest  long  recognized  as  inevitable, 
but  among  the  younger  generation,  hotter  headed 
and  less  philosophical,  was  apparent  a  silent 
sullenness  that  boded  ill  for  the  future  peace  of 
the  sleepy,  sun-parched  city. 

The  house  of  Arillo  haughtily  gave  no  sign. 
Though  it  was  a  day  pregnant  with  portents  of 
the  future  for  Don  Jose"  Antonio  Arillo,  there  was 
no  anxiety  in  his  calm  face  as  he  idly  scanned  the 
columns  of  a  tattered  and  much  bethumbed 
Mexican  newspaper. 

"Madre  de  Dios,"  murmured  Senora  Arillo, 
"is  it  so,  that  they  are  really  here  —  at  last — the 
Americans?  What  shall  we  do,  Jos6  Antonio?" 

"Calm  thyself,  mother.  There  is  naught  to 
fear,"  he  replied,  with  the  ready  optimism  of  his 
race. 

"But  the  Commandant  Castro  and  his  sol 
diers —  there  will  be  shooting  in  the  streets?" 

Sefior  Arillo's  quiet,  indulgent  smile  was  tinged 
with  a  trace  of  amusement. 

"No;  there  will  be  no  shooting.  The  bold 
Commandant  Castro  and  the  brave  Governor 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW         n 

Pico,  alike,  are  now  on  the  highroad  to  the 
south.  With  the  wisdom  of  the  mole,  they 
have  buried  their  cannons,  that  the  Americans 
might  not  find  them  when  they  come." 

He  was  a  handsome  man,  with  shining  black 
hair,  and  dark  beard  which  he  stroked  thought 
fully  with  his  slender  white  fingers  as  he  spoke. 
As  he  lolled  in  the  easy -chair,  attired  in  a  heavily 
frilled  white  shirt,  drooping  red  sash,  black 
velvet  knee  breeches,  with  white  stockings  and 
shoes  brightly  buckled,  he  was  as  good  a  type 
as  the  time  could  yield  of  the  Californian  gentle 
man  of  the  day.  In  his  finely  chiseled,  sensitive 
face  and  large,  heavy-lidded  black  eyes  was 
the  calm  contentment  of  the  man  who  is  at 
peace  with  the  world  and  his  own  soul — the  easy 
assurance  of  one  to  whom  life  has  been  kind. 

At  her  husband's  mention  of  the  cannon  the 
sefiora's  lips  twitched  tremulously,  and  her  droop 
ing  head,  bent  over  her  lacework,  hid  a  crafty 
smile.  Then  her  gaze  wandered  through  the 
back  window  to  the  far  corner  of  the  patio, 
where  a  roughly  clad  man  was  busily  engaged 
setting  rosebushes  in  a  plot  of  freshly  broken 
ground. 

"Santa  Maria,"  —  she  seemed  talking  now  to 
screen  her  thoughts,  —  "I  know  not  what  the 
world  is  coming  to.  The  times  change,  Jose 
Antonio,  and  the  people  change  with  them,  and 


12  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

not  for  the  better.  I  do  remember  well,  how, 
when  a  little  girl,  I  saw  my  brothers  —  four  of 
them — march  away  to  fight  the  Spaniards,  and 
but  two  came  back.  And  now,  por  Dios!  our 
commandant  and  our  governor  flee,  and  strike 
not  one  blow  for  the  land.  Ah,"  she  repeated, 
1 '  the  times  are  not  what  they  were  —  nor  the 
people." 

"They  must  not  be  blamed,  mother.  There 
was  neither  money,  arms,  nor  clothing  for  the 
soldiers.  Let  us  be  charitable.  It  was  not 
that  Governor  Pico  was  afraid;  he  fled  that  the 
name  of  Pico  might  not  be  disgraced  by  sur 
render." 

The  door  was  flung  wide  open. 

"The  Americans — they  are  here?" 

The  girl's  face  was  bright  with  excitement, 
and  her  whole  body  seemed  aquiver  with  a  fear 
so  exhilarating  that  the  very  entertaining  of  it 
was  an  enjoyable  sensation. 

Black  were  her  eyes — black  as  the  long  lashes 
that  fringed  their  velvet  depths,  black  as  the 
silky  sheen  of  her  raven  tresses.  The  cherry  tint 
of  her  curving  lips,  the  crimson  glow  in  her  olive 
cheeks,  but  echoed  back  the  vivid  red  of  the  single 
rose  in  her  hair. 

It  was  for  such  as  she  that  Spain  became  the 
garden  of  chivalry.  The  land  she  had  never  seen 
had  given  her  a  heritage  of  beauty,  of  the  type 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW         13 

which  generations  before  had  inspired  armored 
knights  and  joyous  troubadours.  Soul-thrilled 
painters,  singers,  and  sculptors  had  seen  such  as 
she  in  their  mind's  ideal  only  to  despair  of  repro 
duction  on  canvas,  in  verse,  or  in  marble. 

Full-blooded  girlhood  was  hers,  toned  by  the 
reserve  of  the  woodland  fawn;  flood-tiding  vi 
vacity,  held  in  check  by  the  gentility  of  genera 
tions;  witchery  of  the  coquette,  subdued  by  the 
overpowering  honor  of  womanhood. 

The  Don  rose  and  kissed  Loreto  on  the  fore 
head,  lingering  a  moment  to  touch  her  hair 
caressingly.  It  was  not  unusual  for  him  to  be 
affectionate  with  his  daughter,  but  to-day  some 
thing  of  sadness  marked  his  demeanor,  as  though 
it  had  the  chastening  spirit  of  a  farewell. 

But  the  girl  scintillated  with  the  exuberance 
of  youth.  Sadness  and  she  were  strangers.  Her 
bosom  heaved,  her  lips  bowed,  her  bare  arms 
dimpled  with  all  the  tantalizing  fullness  of  youth, 
and  her  eyes  danced  with  vibrating  youth's  myriad 
fascinations. 

Don  Jose  Antonio  turned  in  his  easy,  graceful 
way,  and  stepping  to  the  outside  door  opening  on 
the  plaza,  closed  and  barred  it. 

' '  Keep  within,  all  of  you.  Keep  the  doors  and 
windows  barred  and  closed,  all  but  one.  Here 
we  will  look  out.  The  Americans  mean  well, 
I  believe,  but  their  ways  are  not  our  ways,  and 

2 


i4    THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

it  may  be  that  there  are  rough  and  ungodly  men 
among  them." 

Turning  a  bend  of  the  roadway,  the  head  of  the 
column  swung  into  full  view,  and  heralding  it 
the  blare  of  the  band  flooded  the  drowsy  square. 
Vaingloriously  it  clashed  to  the  inner  recesses 
of  mansion  and  hut,  as  though  boasting  of  the 
bloodless  and  inconsequent  triumph.  Arillo 
smiled  at  the  grotesqueness  of  the  situation. 
What  a  fanfare  for  such  an  undisputed  conquest ! 

Leading  the  column,  three  horsemen  entered 
the  plaza;  then,  marching  four  abreast,  their 
short  muskets  aslant  on  their  shoulders,  came 
the  solid  squares  of  sailors,  clean  and  natty  in 
their  uniforms  of  white  and  blue.  After  them, 
from  out  a  cloud  of  yellow  dust,  the  slow-swaying 
oxen  dragged  the  trundling  guns. 

"Ah,  the  sailors  from  the  American  war  ships. 
They  march  well  for  seafaring  men,"  said  Don 
Jose  Antonio  as  he  peered  through  the  partly 
opened  shutters. 

"Who  are  those  behind  the  sailors?  They 
look  so  fierce  and  wild,"  questioned  Loreto, 
gazing  over  her  father's  shoulder. 

At  the  head  of  the  second  division  rode  a  tall 
man  on  a  great  black  horse,  his  battered  slouch 
hat  well  down  over  his  thin,  bearded  face.  Behind 
him,  their  rifles  slung  over  their  backs  or  resting 
across  their  saddles,  came  a  motley  group  in 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW         15 

uncouth  garb.  Keen-eyed  men  they  were,  with 
unshaven  faces  and  with  uncut  hair  straggling 
over  their  shoulders.  Their  frilled  buckskin 
jerkins,  with  here  and  there  a  faded  blue  woolen 
shirt,  their  caps  of  coyote  skins,  the  tails  drooping 
behind,  bespoke  the  frontiersman,  the  plainsman, 
and  the  fur  trader. 

Arillo's  face  darkened  as  they  filed  past  his  home. 

"Fremont  and  his  'Bears,'"  he  muttered.  "It 
was  they  who  began  the  war  in  the  north." 

The  three  horsemen  rode  slowly  over  to  the 
lower  end  of  the  plaza,  where  the  Mexican  tri 
color  with  its  Aztec  eagle  drooped  in  the  quiet 
air.  A  sailor  stepped  from  the  ranks  and  with 
a  jerk  of  his  wrist  brought  it  fluttering  to  the 
ground.  There  was  no  one  to  dispute  the  act. 
Sefiora  Arillo  sobbed,  and  turned  away  from 
the  window.  The  Don's  eyes  were  thoughtful, 
but  he  was  silent  as  the  banner  of  the  stars 
fluttered  upward.  *  - 

Wild  ringing  cheers  from  the  Americans  in  the         \ 
plaza,  repeated  again  and  again,  and  then  the    ** 
band  struck  up  a  clamorous  strain  of  triumphant 
music.     The  conquest  of  the  Pacific  coast  was 
complete;  all  of  California  had  become  an  Amer 
ican  possession. 

With  the  curiosity  of  her  sex,  the  girl  leaned 
from  the  window,  all  intent  on  the  group  near 
the  flagstaff.  So  deeply  interested  was  she  that 


1 6  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

when  she  turned  it  was  to  look  suddenly  and 
directly  into  the  eyes  of  an  American  officer  who, 
during  the  maneuvering,  had  quietly  stopped  his 
horse  close  to  the  veranda. 

Erect,  handsome,  and  well  groomed,  there  was 
in  his  fresh  young  face,  buoyant  with  the  ease  of 
perfect  physical  health,  an  expression  of  pleas 
ing  affability,  somewhat  in  contrast  with  the 
air  of  cool  self-reliance  and  quiet  determination 
suggested  by  the  deeply  cleft  chin,  set  strongly 
under  his  heavy  blond  mustache.  Perplexed  with 
deep  thought,  he  was  almost  frowning  under  his 
visored  cap  when  his  gaze  uprose  to  meet  that  of 
the  girl.  At  once  his  deep  blue  eyes  beamed  with 
an  artist's  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  sudden  and 
unexpected  beauty,  and  yet  he  was  not  guilty 
of  even  the  semblance  of  a  smile. 

Instinctively  his  hand  touched  his  hat  in 
respectful  salute,  and  deferentially  he  reined  his 
horse  away.  The  startled  girl  closed  the  shutter 
with  a  snap  that  seemed  almost  vicious  in  its 
haste.  He  stared  at  the  closed  window  for  a 
moment,  and  then  passed  on  reluctantly  toward 
the  Plaza  Church. 

"May  the  good  God  grant  that  they  do  not 
take  our  house  for  their  headquarters,"  muttered 
Don  Jose"  Antonio. 

Lieutenant  Jack  Carroll  said  to  himself,  "By 
Gad!" 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW         17 

Back  to  the  open  plaza  flocked  the  people; 
from  the  hill  came  the  Indians  and  peons,  their 
brown  faces  lighting  up  with  pleasure  as  in 
excited  groups  they  listened  to  the  music  and 
watched  the  sailors  building  their  fires  and 
making  preparations  for  the  evening  meal.  After 
all,  the  Americans  appeared  to  be  harmless,  and 
with  an  immense  relief  the  pueblo  went  about 
its  business,  for  though  a  new  flag  waved  over 
the  city  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Angels,  there  were 
the  cornfields  to  be  hoed  and  watered  from  the 
acequias  on  the  morrow,  and  the  ripe  peaches 
in  the  orchards  along  the  river  were  almost 
ready  for  the  picking. 

Slowly  the  blue  of  the  encircling  hills  faded  to 
wondrous  tints  of  mauve  and  lavender.  Behind 
the  rugged  range- top  the  sun,  a  sharp-edged  disk 
of  gold,  slid  silently  out  of  sight  amid  a  bursting 
radiance  of  orange  and  crimson,  flaring  up  to 
the  arched  blue.  Softly  the  slow-rising  moon 
silver-showered  the  clustering  dark  roofs  and  the 
open  plaza,  the  blanketed  forms  of  the  sleeping 
men,  the  dark  group  of  tethered  horses  shuffling 
restlessly,  and  the  figures  of  the  sentries  as  they 
moved  silently  back  and  forth.  Near  the  dark 
front  of  the  church  the  polished  brass  of  the  can 
non  gleamed  with  a  golden  luster  amid  a  tangle 
of  wheels.  From  the  distant  ocean  a  wandering 
breeze  caught  the  drooping  flag,  tossed  it  erect 


i8  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

for  a  moment,  then  let  it  fall  limply  to  the 
staff. 

The  occupation  of  Los  Angeles  was  complete. 

Lieutenant  Carroll  turned  away  for  a  stroll 
in  the  quiet  night.  His  responsive  heart  warmed 
at  the  memory  of  the  incident  before  Arillo's 
window,  for  aside  from  the  romance  of  it  his 
artist's  mind  was  thrilled  with  the  vision  of  the 
girl's  entrancing  beauty. 

"Wouldst  know  thy  future,  sefior?  Wouldst 
know  thy  future?" 

A  blind  and  withered  Indian  woman  sat  on  a 
doorstep,  garbed  in  rags  and  surrounded  by 
sundry  evidences  of  squalor. 

The  lieutenant  dropped  a  bit  of  silver  into  her 
palm,  —  the  first,  perhaps,  she  had  possessed  in 
many  a  day. 

"God  took  my  eyes,  but  to  me  the  Holy  Mother 
makes  the  future  clear,"  she  explained  in  guttural 
Spanish,  with  exclamations  of  the  most  profuse 
gratitude. 

"Good  stranger,"  she  said,  as  she  held  his 
hand,  "alas  that  one  so  generous  should  suffer  so. 
Thy  heart  shall  be  crushed  as  by  a  stone,  and  blood 
shall  smear  thy  path.  The  great  hearts  whom 
thou  reverest  shall  be  humbled;  she  who  loves 
thee  shall  pray  for  thy  death.  Sad,  sad,  and 
long  is  the  way,  and  filled  with  woe." 

"It  is  fortunate  that  at  this  particular  time  no 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW         19 

one  loves  me,"  soliloquized  Carroll,  with  an 
amused  smile. 

"Thy  heart  shall  be  crushed  as  by  a  stone. 
The  sunlight  will  come  only  to  be  followed  by 
the  night  of  sorrow.  Friendship  shall  walk  in 
clanking  chains.  Fools  shall  make  strife,  and 
villains  shall  prosper.  Thy  heart  shall  be  crushed 
as  by  a  stone,"  she  repeated,  as  though  chanting 
a  litany. 

The  woman's  upturned,  sightless  eyeballs,  the 
mystic  import  of  her  singsong  words,  touched 
a  superstitious  Celtic  chord  somewhere  deep  down 
in  the  man's  soul. 

"In  God's  name,  good  woman,  cease!"  he 
cried,  as  he  snatched  away  his  hand. 

"Stay,  and  hear  all — stay — " 

1 '  I  will  not, "  said  Carroll.  ' '  That 's  grief  enough 
for  a  peso." 

The  sound  of  a  half -suppressed  chuckle  caused 
him  to  turn  his  head,  to  find  himself  gazing 
unexpectedly  into  the  eyes  of  a  stout,  broad- 
shouldered  man  whose  square,  rugged  countenance, 
seen  in  the  light  of  the  lantern  on  the  veranda 
post,  was  twisted  in  contemptuous  scorn,  evidently 
at  the  American's  apparent  credulity. 

The  lieutenant's  cool  gaze  took  in  the  details 
of  the  stranger's  appearance,  the  hard  protuberant 
blue  eyes  set  close  under  jutting  brows,  the 
massive  mould  of  his  features,  the  shaggy  aureole 


20    THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

of  blond  hair,  in  strange  contrast  with  the  coppery 
glow  of  his  cheek. 

Irritated  by  the  unspoken  insolence  of  the 
man's  scrutiny,  Carroll  was  about  to  speak 
when  the  listener,  the  aggravating  sneer  still  on 
his  heavy  mouth,  shrugged  his  shoulders  indif 
ferently  and  strode  away. 

That  night,  wearied  by  the  long  march  of  the 
day,  the  lieutenant  dropped  quickly  to  sleep,  but 
it  was  a  sleep  of  strange,  distorted  dreams,  in 
which  two  faces  came  and  went  in  tumultuous 
confusion, — the  gladdening  memory  of  the  girl 
at  the  casement  and  the  lowering  visage  of  the 
unknown  eavesdropper.  Ever  through  the  fleet 
ing  mirage  of  his  visions  floated  the  fancied 
croonings  of  the  Indian  woman. 

"Thy  heart  shall  be  crushed  as  by  a  stone. 
Friendship  shall  walk  in  chains.  Sad  and  long 
is  the  way,  and  filled  with  woe." 


CHAPTER  II 

LIEUTENANT  JOHN   CARROLL 

"Oh,  the  time  I  've  spent  in  wooing, 

In  loving  and  pursuing 
The  light  that  lies  in  women's  eyes 
Has  been  my  heart's  undoing." 

T  IEUTENANT  JACK  CARROLL,  arranging 
•*— '  papers  at  an  improvised  table  on  the  broad 
veranda  inside  the  adobe-walled  inclosure  where 
the  Americans  had  established  headquarters, 
lilted  to  himself  in  the  tone  of  a  man  to  whom  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice  is  pleasing.  He  tied  a 
stubborn  knot  on  a  bundle  of  parchment,  laid  it 
down,  and  resumed  merrily, 

"When  gloomy  science  sought  me, 

I  scorned  the  lore  she  brought  me, 
My  only  books  were  woman's  looks, — " 

He  folded  a  map  carefully,  placed  it  in  a  drawer, 
and  then  concluded, 

"And — folly's — all  they've — taught  me." 

But  Jack  Carroll's  undoing  had  not  been  a  very 
serious  affair,  and  there  was  far  more  of  mirthful 
wisdom  than  youthful  folly  in  his  handsome  young 
face — a  face  that  radiated  health,  heartiness,  and 
happiness. 

Occupied  with  the  routine  work  of  the  post, 
he  had  not  noticed  the  approach  of  a  sumptuously 

21 


22  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

garbed  man  who  hr.d  entered  the  stockade.  The 
newcomer  was  attired  in  the  height  of  Mexican 
fashion, —  bell-mouthed  trousers  of  black  broad 
cloth,  open  on  the  side  and  laced  to  the  knee, 
short  rounded  jacket  of  blue  velvet  bright  with 
gold  braid,  a  flowing  crimson  sash,  and  wide 
curved-brimmed  sombrero  heavy  with  silver  fila 
gree.  Over  his  shoulder  hung  gracefully  the  long 
folds  of  a  dark  blue  serape. 

The  Californian  glanced  inquiringly  at  Commo 
dore  Stockton,  who  had  just  stepped  out  on  the 
veranda.  Then  his  grave  face  returned  Carroll's 
genial  smile. 

"Have  I  the  honor  of  addressing  the  American 
commander?"  he  asked  in  Spanish,  with  a  formal 
bow. 

The  commodore,  a  large-faced  man  with  graying 
tufts  of  hair  in  front  of  his  ears  and  a  high,  arched 
nose,  eyed  the  stranger's  rich  raiment  with  an 
insolent  stare. 

"What  is  this  gorgeous  individual  saying,  lieu 
tenant?"  he  inquired,  turning  to  Carroll. 

The  young  officer  rose,  and  returned  the  Cali- 
fornian's  bow.  "Whom  have  I  the  pleasure  of 
addressing?"  he  asked  in  fluent  Spanish. 

"Don  Jos6  Antonio  Arillo,  formerly  alcalde,  of 
the  pueblo." 

"Oh,  explain  that  to  him,"  broke  in  the  com 
modore,  waving  his  hands  toward  the  papers  on 


LIEUTENANT  JOHN  CARROLL        23 

the  table,  "and  tell  him  to  come  around  with 
his  friends  to-morrow  and  sign  the  paroles." 

"The  commodore  wishes  me — pardon  me, 
sefior,  be  seated,"  went  on  Carroll, —  "to  explain 
to  you  the  purpose  and  meaning  of  the  parole 
which  you  and  the  other  principal  men  of  the 
pueblo  are  expected  to  sign.  I  shall  read  it  for 
you. 

"  'The  undersigned  hereby  agrees,  and  binds 
himself  under  his  parole  of  honor,  not  to  serve 
against  the  military  forces  of  the  United  States, 
nor  to  give  aid  and  comfort  to  its  enemies.' 

"It  is  our  intention,"  he  continued,  "to  have 
all  those  who  have  in  any  way  or  at  any  time  been 
connected  with  civil  or  military  power  under  the 
late  government  of  California  sign  this  parole. 
In  return  we  have  the  honor  to  assure  you  that 
your  properties  and  persons  shall  be  respected. 
We  only  ask  that  the  laws  be  observed.  All  laws 
shall  remain  the  same  as  before,  except  only  for 
the  exigencies  of  military  rule.  We  should  be 
pleased  to  have  you  assist  in  communicating 
the  desires  and  intentions  of  our  commander  to 
your  people." 

"With  much  pleasure  shall  I  do  so,"  said  Arillo, 
with  his  habitual  grave  dignity.  "I  can  speak 
for  many  —  for  most  —  when  I  say  that  among 
our  people  there  is  no  discontent.  Anything  is 
better  than  the  never-ending  revolutions  and 


24  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

meaningless  disturbances  of  the  last  few  years. 
I  do  not  exaggerate,  senor,  when  I  state  that 
among  the  genie  de  razon  your  coming  is  not 
unwelcome,  and  I  —  " 

Stockton  interrupted  his  flow  of  sonorous 
Castilian. 

"What  is  he  saying,  lieutenant?  My  Spanish 
is  rusty." 

"He  says  the  Spanish  people  are  glad  we  are 
here." 

"Humph,"  remarked  the  commodore.  "I'll 
believe  that  when  we  recover  those  cannon  Castro 
made  away  with." 

Arillo  turned  his  great  dark  eyes  half  scornfully 
on  Stockton;  then,  frowning  a  little,  he  bade 
Carroll  a  courteous  farewell,  and  walked  slowly 
out  the  stockade  gate. 

The  lieutenant  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
gazed  dreamily  at  the  sunlit  square  of  the  stockade. 
Incidents  of  the  past  few  days,  though  seemingly 
monotonous,  had  been  eventful  to  him  at  least. 
In  the  still  air  of  the  City  of  the  Angels  he  seemed 
to  feel  the  presence  of  an  overwhelming  fate. 

But  yesterday  he  had  attended  mass  at  the 
Plaza  Church,  and  an  event  which  under  ordinary 
circumstances  would  have  seemed  trivial  had  been 
the  occasion  of  setting  his  whole  being  a-tingle 
with  romantic  expectancy.  His  erect  figure, 
clad  in  its  uniform  of  blue,  was  the  object  of 


LIEUTENANT  JOHN  CARROLL        25 

many  curious  glances  from  the  Californians  as, 
kneeling  with  them  on  the  stone  floor  of  the  seat- 
less  church,  he  dreamily  followed  the  service,  his 
mind  very  busy  with  the  tender  memories  of 
long-gone  years.  These  came  very  close  and 
very  clear  to  him  as  he  knelt  there,  the  well- 
remembered  chants  of  the  mother  of  all  churches, 
the  same  in  every  land  and  every  age,  sounding 
strangely  familiar  in  his  ears. 

The  service  ended,  he  again  bent  his  knee  in 
the  aisle  as  he  had  done  in  the  far-off  days  of  his 
boyhood,  and  turned  to  find  himself  gazing  into 
a  pair  of  wondrous  black  eyes — eyes  wide  open, 
luring,  appealing,  questioning,  yet  serious  with 
a  tinge  of  wistful  melancholy.  For  a  brief, 
fleeting  moment  they  held  him  fast  with  their 
rapt  intensity, — a  look  of  interest  that  was  almost 
admiring,  that  sent  his  veins  tingling  to  his  finger 
tips.  Then  with  a  quick  little  movement,  full 
of  infinite  grace,  the  girl  drew  the  black  mantilla 
closer  around  her  head,  and  was  lost  in  the  slowly 
moving  crowd. 

As  the  lieutenant  now  strolled  slowly  toward 
the  stockade  gate  there  rose  before  him  again  the 
girl's  rapturous  eyes,  the  tiny  tendrils  of  curling 
hair  on  her  temples,  and  the  deep  shadows  beneath 
her  lashes  as  her  glance  had  fallen  before  his. 
There  was  something  in  them  that  eluded  him,  a 
something  in  the  slight  upward  tilt  of  the  brows. 


26  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Surely,  it  was  a  gleam  of  recognition?  Where 
had  those  eyes  looked  into  his  before,  not  with 
longing,  inquiring  gaze,  but  with  startled  dismay  ? 
Then  with  a  sudden  illuminating  flash  came  the 
memory  of  the  face  that  had  vanished  from  the 
window  the  day  the  troops  arrived  in  the  pueblo. 
"You're  lookin'  mighty  solemn,  lieutenant." 
Carroll  looked  up  to  meet  the  quizzical  eyes 
of  a  tall  frontiersman  in  buckskin  coat,  who  was 
doing  sentry  duty  at  the  stockade  gate. 

"Hello,  Jim  Marshall,"  he  said,  cordially, 
"what  do  you  know  to-day?" 

Between  the  warm-hearted  young  lieutenant 
and  the  grizzled  trapper  had  sprung  up  a  warm 
and  sudden  liking.  Alone  in  one  another's  com 
pany,  their  conversation  was  marked  by  a  famil 
iarity  which  ignored  the  formalities  usual  between 
an  officer  and  an  enlisted  man. 

"Wa-all,"  drawled  Jim,  after  a  hurried  glance 
about  him,  "this  war  ain't  run  quite  to  suit  me. 
The  weather's  a  trifle  warm,  rations  ain't  exactly 
a  Paris  menoo,  our  boys  is  drinkin'  too  much 
wine,  the  fleas  is  workin'  overtime,  the  commodore 
ain't  been  givin'  me  his  entire  cooperation.  Still, 
I  call  this  pueblo  a  fair  to  middlin'  place.  Now 
these  high-class  greasers  has  pretty  good  stuff 
in  them." 

Carroll  suppressed  a  chuckle. 

"Yes,    siree.     Thar's    that    old    sport,    Senor 


LIEUTENANT  JOHN  CARROLL        27 

Arillo,  that  was  in  here  this  afternoon,  the  gent 
with  the  silver  dewdads  on  his  clothes.  I'll  bet 
he's  all  right.  Why,  say,  George  Washington 
himself  didn't  have  it  any  over  him  on  dignity. 
Pretty  swell  people,  that  family.  Ever  met  any 
of  the  rest  of  them?"  Marshall's  grin  was 
emphatically  roguish. 

"I  haven't  had  that  pleasure." 

"Well,  lieutenant,  let  me  tell  you  something. 
That  'ere  family  owns  the  ten-thousand-dollar 
beauty  of  this  camp.  This  Miss  Arillo  has  the 
young  bucks  around  here  all  loony.  They're 
all  ready  to  throw  their  hats  and  their  hearts  on 
the  ground  for  her  to  walk  on,  and  she  don't 
see  nary  one  of  them. 

"You  betcha,  this  girl  is  a  primmy  dona  and  a 
Circassian  beauty  all  rolled  into  one.  You  see, 
according  to  the  custom  of  this  country  these 
flowers  is  born  to  blush  unkissed,  as  it  were. 
There  ain't  no  goin'  to  see  yer  gal  here,  an'  sittin' 
up  an'  spoonin'  after  the  old  folks  goes  to  bed, 
like  back  in  the  States.  I  wuz  over  thar  in  the 
alley  —  wuz  doin'  some  carpenter  work  for  the 
captain  that  day,  beyond  the  plaza,  pullin'  a  beam 
out  of  an  old  adobe  that  didn't  belong  to  no  one 
in  particular,  when  I  sees  her  on  the  verandy — 
that's  the  house  you  nearly  rode  yer  hoss  into 
the  day  we  arriv'.  But,  as  I  wuz  savin',  no  one 
minds  an  old  grizzly  like  me,  so  I  gets  as  many 


28  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

looks  as  I  kin  at  her  out  of  the  tail  of  my 
eye,  and  say,  lieutenant,  that  girl  is  sure  a 
humdinger." 

Quite  carried  away  by  his  own  eloquence, 
Marshall  continued,  "Why,  if  I  wasn't  already  a 
family  man,  with  one  squaw  jerkin'  venison  and 
buffalo  meat  for  me  in  a  tepee  up  on  the  Snake 
River,  and  another  on  the  Truckee,  an'  if  I  was 
twenty  years  younger,  it  would  be  me  for  Miss 
Arillo." 

Carroll  started  like  one  awakened  from  sleep. 
This  was  the  girl  at  the  window,  the  senorita  he 
had  seen  at  mass.  He  had  met  her  father  this 
afternoon. 

"Yes,  siree,"  continued  Marshall,  "you'd  see 
me  under  her  window  with  a  banjo  or  a  fiddle, 
or  sumthin'  that  fud  make  music,  rippin'  her 
heart's  strings  out  with  bars  from  'Pop  Goes  the 
Weasel,'  or  'Turkey  in  the  Straw,'  or  sumthin'. 
Yes,  siree,  and  nuthin'  short  of  a  kettle  of  bilin' 
water  or  a  blunderbuss  loaded  with  nails  would 
keep  me  from  movin'  right  into  the  Arillo  family 
an'  campin'.  After  she'd  give  me  the  peace 
sign,  or  throwed  me  a  kiss  or  sumthin',  I  'd  walk 
right  up  to  the  front  door  an'  rap,  an'  if  the  old 
man  opened  it  I  'd  stick  my  foot  in  so 's  he  could  n't 
close  it,  and  say,  'Mister  Arillo,  me  an'  yer  darter 
is  plumb  engaged,  and  ye  may  as  well  get  used 
to  it." 


LIEUTENANT  JOHN  CARROLL         2Q 

"Marshall,"  asked  Carroll  with  a  grim  smile, 
"do  you  think  I  could  sing  a  serenade?" 

"You  ain't  strong  on  melodiousness,  that's  a 
fact,  lieutenant,  but  derned  if  I  wouldn't  like  to  see 
you  have  a  stack  of  chips  in  this  game  somehow." 


CHAPTER  III 

A   CRY   IN   THE   DARK 

""pvARKNESS  comes  already,"  said  Senorita 
*-^  Loreto  Arillo  as  she  drew  her  rebozo  around 
her,  and  rose  to  her  feet.  "Surely  have  I  stayed 
too  late."  She  had  indeed  lingered  long  at  the 
home  of  her  good  aunt,  Dona  Chonita. 

"Santa  Maria,  child!  Thou  wilt  not  venture 
out  alone?  Wait  a  few  minutes,  and  Don  Fer 
nando  will  arrive  and  he  will  escort  thee.  There 
are  always  these  noisy  Americans,  shouting  and 
drinking  beyond  the  plaza.  I  can  hear  them 
often  at  night  over  by  the  wine  shops.  For  Dios, 
but  they  are  a  strange  people!" 

Loreto  seated  herself  on  the  bench  by  the 
window,  and  for  a  moment  was  silent  as  she 
nervously  plaited  a  fold  in  her  skirt.  Then  she 
said  in  a  low  tone,  her  face  filling  with  a  soft, 
dreamy  light: 

"Ah,  Tia  Chonita,  they  are  not  all  like  that." 
"That  I  do  not  know.     Let  us  hope  not.     But 
they  are  rough  and  uncouth — those  that  I  have 
seen." 

The  girl  smiled  with  the  confident  wisdom  of 
youth.  Her  aunt  was  old-fashioned,  and  there 
was  much  that  she  did  not  know. 

30 


A   CRY  IN  THE   DARK  31 

"But,  Tia,  I  must  go.  Mother  will  be  troubled. 
Have  no  fear  for  me." 

"Child,  child,  I  will  not  have  thee  venture  out. 
Dost  thou  hear  that?"  she  added,  as  a  long- 
drawn  howl  came  from  the  wine  shops  across  the 
plaza.  "And  then,  who  knows,  thou  mightst 
chance  to  meet  the  Black  Matador.  It  is  on 
such  nights  as  these — starlit,  without  a  moon — 
that,  it  is  said,  he  walks  abroad." 

Loreto's  shoulder  quivered  in  a  delicious  little 
shiver,  half  fear,  half  youthful  curiosity. 

"Tia  mine,  tell  me  of  him.  Often  I  hear  him 
spoken  of.  Didst  thou  ever  see  him?" 

"Thanks  to  the  saints,  no,  never;  but  my 
mother,  yes.  Forty  years  ago  it  was,  Loreto, 
when  a  new  governor  came  from  Mexico  City, 
bringing  with  him  many  fine  young  gentlemen 
and  officers  in  gay  clothes.  I  was  only  a  little 
girl,  but  well  do  I  remember  how  for  two  whole 
weeks  they  held  fiesta,  with  balls  at  the  govern 
ment  house  and  bull  fights  in  the  old  ring  beyond 
your  home  to  the  north  of  the  church.  With  the 
governor  came  he  who  was  known  as  the  Black 
Matador,  for,  unlike  other  matadors,  he  was  not 
dressed  in  gay  colors,  but  always  in  black.  Hand 
some  he  was,  but,  oh,  so  sad,  for  it  was  said  that 
a  fair  lady  in  far-off  Spain  had  refused  his  love, 
and  that  his  heart  was  breaking  for  love  of  her. 
A  silent  man  he  was,  and  spoke  but  little,  and  his 


32    THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

grieving  eyes  never  answered  the  warm  glances  of 
the  many  beautiful  senoritas  who  looked  with 
kindness  upon  him. 

"Never  in  the  bull  ring  was  hand  so  sure  or  eye 
so  true  as  his,  and  they  said  of  him — the  ladies 
that  watched  him  with  kindness  in  their  eyes — 
that  his  somber  garb  was  but  the  outward  sign 
of  his  broken  heart.  Many  bulls  he  killed, 
always  with  that  one,  swift,  sure  stroke,  but  when 
he  looked  up  at  the  wild  huzzas  and  the  flowers 
that  rained  down  upon  him,  there  was  no  pride 
or  joy  in  his  pale  face.  He  saw  the  coming  of  his 
fate,  it  is  believed,  for  on  the  day  that  he  died  he 
made  confession  of  all  his  life  to  Father  Linares. 
How  it  happened  it  is  hard  to  tell.  Some  say  that 
he  stood  as  one  in  a  dream;  others,  that  his  hand 
was  not  sure,  and  that  he  missed  his  stroke,  for 
the  bull  caught  him  on  his  horns  and  tossed  him 
high  in  the  air,  while  the  men  groaned  and  the 
women  covered  their  faces  with  their  hands. 
Then  the  big  beast  trampled  his  black  figure 
into  the  sand,  and  when  they  picked  him  up, 
his  face  was  gone — no  sign  of  features  was  there 
left! 

"Ah,  how  my  mother  would  shudder  when  she 
told  the  tale!  Buried  he  was  in  the  Campo 
Santo  to  the  north,  but  he  does  not  sleep  well, 
for  many  a  time  he  has  been  seen,  but  always, 
always,  is  his  face  covered  with  the  corner  of  his 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK  33 

black  cloak,  as  if  he  willed  that  no  man  should 
see  it." 

"And  thy  mother  really  saw  him?" 

"She  did,  indeed.  One  dark  night  by  the 
church,  with  his  flat,  old-fashioned  hat,  and  his 
face  covered  with  the  corner  of  his  cloak.  But 
never  could  she  be  brought  to  speak  of  it,  for 
the  very  memory  of  it  made  her  face  go  pale. 
And  often  have  I  heard  that  he  has  appeared 
to  others.  Always,  always,  his  coming  means 
grief  and  sorrow,  so  pray  the  Virgin,  child,  that 
you  may  never  see  him.  There,  there,  truly  I 
am  but  a  foolish,  prattling  old  woman,  telling 
thee  such  tales,"  she  added,  as  she  noted  Loreto's 
wide-eyed  gaze.  "Wait  thee!  Don  Fernando 
must  arrive  soon." 

But  Don  Fernando  did  not  come,  and  as  the 
night  wore  on,  Loreto  recovered  from  her  super 
stitious  thrill,  and  announced  her  intention  of 
going. 

"I  must  go,  Tia  Chonita.  Mother  does  not 
know  where  I  am.  Have  no  fear  for  me.  It 
is  but  a  step  up  the  street  to  the  plaza,  and  from 
there  a  smart  run  will  bring  me  to  my  own  door." 

There  was  no  moon,  but  it  was  clear  and 
cloudless,  the  blue  arch  overhead  scintillating 
with  quivering  stars.  Not  a  figure  showed  in  the 
shadowy  breadth  of  the  open  square.  Tripping 
lightly  down  the  steps,  she  hurried  silently  to  the 


34    THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

entrance  of  the  plaza,  and  then,  with  a  wildly 
beating  heart,  she  raced  toward  the  veranda  of 
her  own  home,  dimly  seen  in  the  darkness. 

Out  of  the  shadows  lurched  a  shambling  figure ; 
a  hand  caught  her  shoulder,  and  a  rough  voice 
gurgled  in  her  ear  in  badly  accented  Spanish: 

"Don't  hurry  so,  little  one." 

She  screamed  in  terror,  and  throwing  off  the 
rebozo,  which  the  man  held  firmly  in  his  grasp, 
she  tried  to  dart  away,  but  it  was  caught  in  the 
fastening  of  the  brooch  at  her  neck.  The  man 
laughed  gleefully  as,  holding  it  in  one  hand,  he 
stepped  toward  her. 

Close  at  hand  and  out  of  the  darkness  came  a 
tall  man.  Loreto  saw  dimly  the  forward  thrust 
of  his  shoulders,  the  stiffening  of  his  neck  and 
head,  and  heard  the  vicious  smack  of  knuckles 
meeting  flesh  and  bone.  The  ruffian  tottered 
to  the  ground;  then  he  scrambled  to  his  feet  and, 
with  a  roar  like  a  bellowing  bull,  threw  himself 
on  the  newcomer,  belching  brutal  oaths.  Like 
two  pistol  shots  John  Carroll's  two  fists  landed 
full  and  fair  on  his  face  and  jaw.  With  a  shudder 
of  pain,  the  man  sank  again  to  the  ground,  this 
time  motionless. 

For  a  moment  the  girl  clung  to  Carroll's  arm, 
sobbing  hysterically;  then,  as  she  glanced  upward 
through  the  tears  glistening  on  her  cheeks,  the 
light  of  recognition  came  into  her  eyes,  though 


A  CRY  IN  THE   DARK  35 

the  darkness  hid  the  rosy  blushes  that  mantled 
her  face. 

' '  Oh-h-h ! ' '  There  was  relief  and  gladness  in  her 
voice. 

"Do  not  fear,  senorita;  he  will  give  you  no 
further  trouble,"  he  said,  as  he  passed  his  arm 
around  her  slender  form. 

Carroll's  heart  was  pounding  wildly,  and  his 
lips  were  hot  and  moistureless,  for  he  had  seen 
in  the  velvet  eyes  upturned  to  his  in  the  starlight 
the  complete  surrender  that  the  woman  of  the 
Latin  races  yields  only  to  the  man  who  has  won 
her  heart.  In  that  moment  he  knew  Loreto 
Arillo  was  his. 

"Senor — senor,"  she  protested,  "you  must  not, 
you  must  not,"  and  her  slight  fingers  pushed  at 
his  encircling  arm,  for  she  was  a  Spanish  girl  with 
all  the  traditionary  reserve  of  her  people. 

"No,  senorita."  He  held  her  now  more  firmly, 
and  she  became  more  resigned.  "You  are  trem 
bling,  and  can  hardly  stand." 

Her  eyes  were  closed;  she  was  trembling,  but 
her  trembling  now  was  not  of  fear;  it  was  the 
quiver  of  a  virgin  heart  at  a  lover's  first  embrace. 

He  threw  the  door  open  and,  as  he  did  so, 
Senora  Arillo  appeared,  a  lighted  candle  in  her 
hand.  At  the  sight  of  her  daughter  clinging 
close  to  the  blue  uniform  of  an  American,  she 
screamed  in  horror,  bringing  Don  Jos6  Antonio 


36    THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

rushing  into  the  room,  his  usually  placid  face 
full  of  alarm. 

"Take  your  hands  off  my  child,"  Seflora  Arillo 
cried. 

But  Loreto  threw  herself  on  her  mother's 
breast,  sobbing — sobs  that  broke  into  half- 
hysterical  laughter. 

"Mother,  mother,  speak  not  so  to  him.  He 
saved  me  from  a  man,  an  awful  man,  who  tore 
my  rebozo  off  in  the  darkness,"  and  she  hid  her 
flushed  face  on  her  mother's  arm. 

Don  Jos6  Antonio  was  the  first  to  grasp  the 
situation.  In  Carroll  he  recognized  the  courteous 
young  officer  of  the  headquarters,  and  his  face 
lighted  with  pleasure.  Grasping  the  soldier's 
hand  with  both  of  his,  he  pressed  it  warmly,  and 
said  in  a  voice  full  of  feeling: 

"I  can  find  no  words,  believe  me,  senor,  to 
express  our  thanks  and  gratitude  for  your  gallant 
conduct.  You  are  indeed  welcome  to  our  home, 
now  and  always.  It  is  all  yours,  senor.  Senora 
Ruiz  de  Arillo,  my  wife,  Lieutenant  Carroll." 

The  senora  gave  him  her  hand,  and  her  words 
echoed  her  husband's  warm  thanks  and  courteous 
greeting. 

"Ah,  senora,"  said  the  American,  as  he  bowed 
over  her  hand,  "I  see  plainly  now  why  your 
daughter  is  so  beautiful.  She  is  so  by  the  divine 
right  of  inheritance." 


A   CRY  IN  THE  DARK  37 

The  look  of  hesitating  distrust  fled,  and  her 
full,  rounded,  matronly  face  beamed  with  pleasure. 
For  the  days  when  Senora  Arillo,  then  Senorita 
Ruiz,  was  the  "favorita"  of  the  pueblo,  though 
twenty  years  agone,  were  to  her,  as  they  would 
be  to  any  woman,  of  precious  memory.  And 
truly,  in  the  dark,  prideful  face,  and  figure, 
straight  and  erect,  there  was  still  much  of  the 
beauty  that  had  set  aflame  the  hearts  of  men  in 
the  days  of  the  past. 

"Ah,  Senor  Carroll,  you  flatter — almost  like  a 
Californian.  You  make  it  hard  for  us  to  believe 
you  are  an  American." 

"There  are  times,  indeed,  sefiora,  when  I  am 
almost  ashamed  to  be  an  American.  No,  not 
that — I  will  not  say  that;  but  rather,  that  there 
are  some  Americans  of  whom  I  am  truly 
ashamed." 

"True,  seflor,"  said  Arillo  gravely.  "There 
are  both  good  and  bad  among  all  nations.  The 
devil  has  his  own  everywhere." 

Carroll  glanced  at  his  watch,  and  rose  to  go. 
"I  am  almost  due  at  the  post,"  he  said  reluctantly, 
"and  it  is  late." 

"A  moment,  senor;  do  not  hasten  away." 

Don  Jose  Antonio  clapped  his  hands,  and  a 
servant  appeared  with  wine. 

"To  our  better  acquaintance,  Senor  Carroll," 
he  said  as  he  raised  his  glass,  "and  may  we  have 

112411 


38  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

the  very  great  pleasure  of  seeing  you  often  in 
our  home." 

"The  pleasure  will,  for  me,  indeed  be  great, 
Senor  Arillo,"  replied  Carroll  seriously,  and  he 
looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  girl,  whose  answering 
gaze  met  his  without  evasion. 

He  rose  to  go,  and  as  he  took  Loreto's  hand  in 
his  he  raised  it  boldly  to  his  lips.  Childishly  she 
hid  her  face  against  her  mother's  arm.  He  met 
the  senora's  look  of  displeasure  with  one  of  reso 
lute,  good-natured  defiance.  In  the  custom  of 
the  land  and  of  the  time,  he  was  now  an  avowed 
suitor  for  the  hand  of  Loreto  Arillo. 

"Truly  a  fine  young  man,  that,"  observed  Don 
Jos6  Antonio  as  he  lighted  a  long  black  cigar  and 
resumed  his  seat  at  the  table.  "How  well  he 
speaks  Castilian, —  with  just  the  slightest  trace 
of  accent." 

Senora  Arillo  was  in  a  brown  study.  All  too 
plainly  she  had  read  the  telltale  look  in  her  daugh 
ter's  face,  and  the  proud  but  kindly  defiance  and 
glad  confidence  in  the  blue  eyes  of  Carroll.  Her 
position,  her  power  as  a  mother,  had  been  ignored. 
Her  irritation  grew ;  her  face  became  firm  and  hard. 

"It  is  sad  to  think  such  a  fine  young  man  is  a 
heretic,"  she  said,  purposely  mimicking  her  hus 
band's  words. 

"Ah!  but  mother,  he  is  not,"  protested  Loreto, 
her  face  flushed  with  eager  gladness. 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK  39 

"How  dost  thou  know,  child?  What  hast 
thou  had  to  do  with  him? "  she  questioned  sharply. 

"Nothing,  mother,"  she  said,  ignoring  the  first 
part  of  the  question.  Her  eyes  were  lit  with 
sudden  mischief. 

"How  knowest  thou  he  is  not  a  heretic,  child? 
Hast  thou  spoken  with  him  anywhere  before?" 

"I  have  never  spoken  to  Sefior  Carroll  before 
to-night.  Oh,  mother,  what  a  man  he  is!  How, 
'Bing,  bing,'  and  he  fell  like  a  dead  tree.  It  was 
over,"  she  prattled  merrily. 

Her  mother's  eyes  were  still  regarding  her  sus 
piciously.  "Where  hast  thou  seen  this  Senor 
Carroll  before?  Tell  me  at  once." 

"At  mass,  mother." 

"That  is  nothing,  thou  foolish  girl.  He  goes 
like  other  heretics,  out  of  curiosity — perchance  to 
mock  at  the  pictures  of  the  holy  saints.  And 
that  makes  thee  think  him  a  Catholic?  Bah! 
And  thou  hast  dared  to  cast  thine  eyes  toward 
him — an  American  and  a  heretic." 

Don  Jose  Antonio  took  his  cigar  from  his 
mouth  and  laughed, —  a  hearty,  ringing  laugh. 

"Ah,  mother,  mother!  Are  the  memories  of 
all  the  daughters  of  Eve  as  short  as  thine?  'Tis 
even  as  thine  eyes  strayed  many  a  time,  and 
little  thou  cared  in  those  days  whether  or  not  he 
at  whom  thou  glanced  was  a  heretic  or  no." 

"There  were  no  heretics  in  California  in  those 


40  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

days.  The  times  are  changed,  and  not  for  the 
better." 

"He  is  not  a  heretic,"  persisted  Loreto,  her 
face  full  of  mischief,  but  her  head  held  low  as  she 
idly  twisted  a  silken  ribbon  in  her  white  fingers. 

' '  But  how  knowest  thou  ?  Speak ;  has  he  told 
thee?" 

"I  told  thee  that  I  have  never  exchanged  words 
with  him  before  to-night,"  she  said,  with  exas 
perating  slowness. 

"Loreto,"  snapped  her  mother,  "thou  wouldst 
try  the  patience  of  a  saint.  Tell  me  how  thou 
knowest,  or  thou  shalt  be  sent  to  bed." 

"When  a  man  bends  his  head  at  the  ringing  of 
the  mass  bell,  even  as  we  do,  he  can  be  no  heretic," 
she  replied,  her  triumphant  gaze  searching  her 
mother's  face. 

"Ah,  is  it  so?"  said  Don  Jose  Antonio  with 
interest.  It  was  plain  that  the  news  was  not 
unwelcome  to  him.  "I  do  not  doubt  it,  and  I 
do  not  marvel  now  that  I  liked  him  from  the 
first." 

But  Senora  Arillo  was  stubbornly  incredulous. 
"Never,  never,  have  I  known  of  an  American  who 
was  a  Catholic.  Frenchmen,  yes;  Germans,  Irish 
men,  even  Englishmen  have  I  heard  of  who  were 
of  the  true  faith  —  but  Americans,  never.  I  do 
not  believe  it.  No,  he  is  a  sharp  young  man, 
and  polite, — that  I  can  see, —  so  in  church  he  does 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK  41 

just  as  the  others  do.  T  is  graceful  of  him, 
and  admirable." 

"He  is  no  heretic,"  persisted  Loreto.  "Hadst 
thou  seen  him,  thou  wouldst  know  he  was  at 
home  in  the  church." 

And  for  Carroll,  walking  back  through  the 
night  to  the  stockade,  there  was  no  darkness. 
Around  him  shone  the  light  that  never  was  on 
land  or  sea,  and  within  his  soul  were  singing  secret 
melodies,  of  joy  and  hope  and  gladness  unutter 
able.  One  thought  filled  his  whole  being;  he 
purposed  to  possess  Loreto  Arillo  as  his  wife. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    SON   OP   LEO  THE   STRANGER 

/CAPTAIN  ARCHIBALD  GILLIE,  left  by 
^-^  Stockton  in  command  at  Los  Angeles,  was 
a  man  whose  every  thought  and  action  was 
regulated  by  a  straight  line.  He  arose  at  the 
same  moment  every  morning,  and  punctually 
retired  at  the  same  hour  every  night,  with  reli 
gious  regularity.  Every  hour  of  the  day  was 
devoted  to  some  specific  duty,  and  to  no  other. 
Born  and  raised  in  a  little  New  England  town,  of 
stern  old  witch-burning  stock,  he  had  all  their 
ancient  narrowness  but  none  of  the  facile  quality 
of  ready  adaptability  that  has  been  the  saving 
grace,  in  all  lands  and  in  all  times,  of  the  sons  of 
the  Puritan  and  Pilgrim.  To  him  the  silent, 
poiseful  dignity  of  the  men  of  the  genie  de  razon 
was  but  the  sulkiness  of  a  conquered  race,  and 
their  colorful  garb  but  petty  childishness.  Like 
the  average  man  of  the  English-speaking  world, 
he  despised  and  distrusted  those  of  a  darker 
race,  and  to  him  there  was  but  little  distinction 
between  the  Dons  in  the  pueblo,  who  proudly 
traced  their  descent  from  the  conquistador es  of 
Corte"z,  and  the  blanketed  Indian  herders  from 
the  sunburnt  plains. 

Much   to   his   gratification,    two   of  the  guns 

42 


THE  SON  OF  LEO  THE  STRANGER   43 

concealed  by  Castro  before  his  hurried  flight  were 
recovered.  The  former  officers  of  Castro's  little 
army,  all  residents  of  the  pueblo,  who  had  been 
in  hiding  at  their  ranches  in  the  country,  returned 
one  by  one  and  without  any  objections  gave  their 
paroles  not  to  bear  arms  again  against  the  United 
States.  In  charge  of  the  taking  of  the  paroles, 
thus  bringing  him  into  touch  with  all  the  leading 
men  of  the  pueblo,  was  Lieutenant  John  Carroll, 
formerly  of  the  Marine  Corps.  Between  the 
sensitive  dignity  of  the  people  and  the  gruff 
brusqueness  of  Captain  Gillie,  Carroll's  tactful 
personality  and  his  command  of  Castilian,  acquired 
during  many  years'  residence  in  Cuba,  stood 
always  as  a  buffer,  though  of  this  fact  the  cap 
tain,  with  his  customary  obtuseness,  was  utterly 
unaware. 

Gillie's  first  official  act  was  the  posting  of  a 
proclamation  demanding  the  surrender  of  all 
arms  and  ammunition  to  the  American  authori 
ties.  Gatherings  of  people,  either  public  or  pri 
vate,  were  forbidden,  save  where  a  special  permit 
had  been  given.  The  inhabitants  were  warned 
to  keep  within  doors  after  sunset,  and  the  procla 
mation  ended  with  a  sweeping  injunction  against 
any  "conduct  prejudicial  to  good  morals."  Proc 
lamations,  however,  were  nothing  new  to  the 
people  of  the  pueblo.  They  read,  smiled  amiably, 
and  went  their  ways  much  as  usual. 


44  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

As  the  captain  sat  at  a  paper -strewn  table  in 
his  office  in  one  of  the  rooms  in  the  long  adobe 
to  the  right  of  the  open  stockade,  his  tight-fitting 
blue  jacket  buttoned  close,  though  the  day  was 
sweltering,  his  narrow  back  stiffly  erect,  the  single 
lock  of  graying  hair  carefully  smoothed  across  his 
bald  head,  he  was  the  very  embodiment  of  mili 
tary  exactitude.  As  he  wrote,  his  hand  plucked 
restlessly  at  his  nervous  underlip.  Suddenly  he 
put  down  his  pen,  glanced  at  his  watch,  and 
stepping  to  the  door,  spoke  to  the  sentry: 

"It  is  ten  o'clock.  Brooks,  notify  the  sergeant 
to  bring  from  the  guardhouse  the  prisoners 
arrested  last  night." 

The  marine  saluted,  marched  across  the  sunny 
square  of  the  stockade,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
returned  with  a  score  of  prisoners.  Lieutenant 
Carroll  appeared  from  the  next  room  and,  pen 
in  hand,  took  his  place  at  the  table.  He  was 
followed  in  a  moment  by  Second  Lieutenant 
Somers,  a  somber-faced  man  with  a  bushy  head 
of  ruddy  hair,  and  a  world  of  melancholy  in  his 
deep-set  gray  eyes.  Here,  daily,  Captain  Gillie, 
as  provost  marshal  under  military  rule,  disposed 
of  the  numerous  cases  brought  before  him. 

Among  the  accused  were  young  men  who,  guitar 
in  hand,  had  been  arrested  under  the  windows 
of  their  seiioritas;  others,  whose  sole  offense  was 
that  they  had  attended  a  family  gathering  for 


THE  SON  OF  LEO  THE  STRANGER  45 

the  celebration  of  a  christening;  vaqueros  from  the 
ranches,  absent  from  the  pueblo  for  months,  who 
had  innocently  ridden  into  town  with  pistols 
in  their  sashes;  Indians,  picked  up  intoxicated 
on  the  street  by  the  provost  guard;  and  peons, 
their  eyes  still  red  from  last  night's  debauch. 

Captain  Gillie's  interpretation  of  the  proclama 
tion  was  harsh  and  literal,  his  penalties  prompt 
and  severe.  Dumb  with  amazement,  the  pris 
oners  were  led  away  to  serve  their  sentences  in 
the  guardhouse  of  the  post. 

When  the  last  of  the  list  was  disposed  of, 
Lieutenant  Carroll  sat  moodily  silent,  staring 
at  the  opposite  wall  and  biting  the  ends  of  his 
heavy  mustache.  For  some  days  he  had  been 
seriously  considering  the  advisability  of  boldly 
suggesting  to  Captain  Gillie  the  wisdom  of  modi 
fying  his  stringent  regulations  for  the  governing 
of  the  pueblo.  But  between  the  hard  coldness 
of  the  New  Englander  and  Carroll's  warm 
hearted  Celtic  temperament  there  was  not  only 
slight  sympathy  but  an  unbridgeable  chasm. 
Such  action,  moreover,  would  have  been  a  most 
flagrant  breach  of  military  etiquette.  The  cap 
tain  was  a  man  who  never  dreamed  of  asking  for 
advice,  and  all  of  Carroll's  many  delicately  veiled 
suggestions  had  not  even  impinged  on  his  con 
sciousness.  Lieutenant  Somer's  mournful  gray 
eyes  looked  long  and  steadily  at  the  captain,  but 
4 


46  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

he  said  nothing.  He  was  a  strangely  silent 
man.  During  his  two  weeks'  association  with 
Gillie  and  Carroll  he  had  never  addressed  them, 
except  in  regard  to  necessary  matters  of  military 
routine. 

The  morning  had  seen  but  the  average  grist 
of  petty  offenders  of  the  lower  class,  but  several 
days  before  a  score  of  the  principal  Dons  of  the 
pueblo  had  been  haled  before  the  captain's  court 
and  fined  heavily  for  some  trifling  infractions  of 
the  ordinances.  The  fines  were  paid  with  proud 
promptitude,  but  the  Californians  had  left  the 
court  room,  their  eyes  flashing  with  rage,  their 
lips  white  with  suppressed  indignation.  That 
the  attitude  of  the  people  toward  the  Americans 
had  changed  in  the  last  ten  days,  Carroll  was 
well  aware.  Their  surly  demeanor  and  averted 
glances  told  only  too  plainly  that  they  had  come 
to  regard  their  conquerors  with  aversion  and 
distrust. 

There  was  trouble,  too,  within  the  stockade. 
With  the  exception  of  a  dozen  marines,  the  fifty 
men  of  Gillie's  command  were  the  former  Bear 
Flag  rebels;  men  whom  the  lure  of  the  Wander 
lust  had  drawn  to  this  western  coast;  men  who 
had  fought  the  wild  Indians  of  the  plains,  trapped 
the  wily  beaver  on  the  lonely  reaches  of  unnamed 
streams,  and  faced  death  in  a  hundred  forms  in 
distant  mountain  canons.  Poor  material  were 


THE  SON  OF  LEO  THE  STRANGER  47 

they  for  the  rigid  military  discipline  so  dear  to 
the  captain's  heart.  His  efforts  to  impress  them 
had  been  to  him  a  long-drawn  agony  and  to  the 
men  a  roaring  farce.  When  off  duty  they  were 
to  be  found  in  the  low  dives  and  wine  shops  in 
Nigger  Alley  at  the  southeast  corner  of  the  plaza, 
and  hardly  a  day  passed  but  a  dozen  or  more  were 
dragged,  fighting  furiously  or  soddenly  stupid, 
to  the  guardhouse  in  the  stockade. 

Carroll  knew  something  of  the  Spanish  char 
acter,  its  capacity  for  patient  endurance,  its 
easy  indolence,  and  its  unspoken  contempt  for 
the  man  of  unnecessarily  violent  speech  and 
action.  As  he  stepped  out  into  the  morning 
sunshine  the  sound  of  a  roaring,  drunken  chorus 
came  to  him  from  the  direction  of  the  plaza,  and 
he  sighed  wearily. 

As  if  in  echo  to  his  own  unspoken  thoughts 
there  drifted  to  him,  through  an  open  window 
across  the  stockade,  the  strident  voice  of  Jim 
Marshall. 

"I  tell  ye,  fellahs,  the  captain  don't  under 
stand  the  greasers  none, —  he  don't  understand 
nuthin'  but  orders.  Spanish  folks  ain't  much 
on  startin'  a  stand-up  fight,  but  they  is  sure  bad 
medicine  if  ye  rub  them  the  wrong  way  long 
enough.  If  this  'ere  thing  keeps  on,  thar'll  be 
hell  apoppin'  in  this  old  pueblo  inside  of  a  month. 
Good-by,  fellahs,  I'm  goin'!" 


48    THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

A  few  moments  later  the  lieutenant  encountered 
Marshall  at  the  stockade  gate.  The  frontiersman 
was  leading  a  horse,  burdened  with  a  roll  of 
blankets,  from  the  folds  of  which  the  handles  of 
a  pick  and  shovel  protruded. 

"Why,  Jim,"  queried  Carroll,  as  he  eyed  the 
outfit  curiously,  "where  are  you  going?" 

"Jest  off  to  the  mountings  for  a  little  picnic  by 
myself.  An  old  trapper  like  me  gets  kinda 
restless  here  in  town,  with  the  houses  and  the 
people  acrowdin'  him."  Something  of  embarrass 
ment  was  evident  in  Marshall's  manner.  As  he 
nervously  fumbled  with  the  butt  of  his  rifle,  his 
usually  straightforward  gaze  fell  before  the  lieu 
tenant's  keen  scrutiny. 

"I  got  leave  of  absence  for  two  days  from  the 
captain,"  he  explained,  after  a  moment's  hesita 
tion. 

' '  Bring  us  back  some  bear  meat,  Jim,"  suggested 
the  lieutenant  as  he  turned  away. 

"Mebbe,  mebbe."  His  leathery  face  twisted 
in  a  curious  grin,  the  frontiersman  led  his  horse 
on  out  the  gate. 

Still  smiling  at  Marshall's  unusual  demeanor, 
for  it  was  quite  evident  the  frontiersman  had 
something  to  conceal,  Carroll  strolled  on  idly  up 
the  adobe-lined  street.  Suddenly  screams  of 
pain,  and  the  sound  of  smacking  blows  on  bare 
flesh,  caused  him  to  turn  and  gaze  back  toward 


THE  SON  OF  LEO  THE  STRANGER  49 

the  stockade  gate,  where  two  horsemen  were 
whirling  madly  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

One,  a  sturdy,  broad-shouldered  man,  his 
hand  twisted  in  the  mane  of  the  other's  mount, 
was  raining  blows  on  the  back  of  a  breech-clouted 
Indian  boy.  At  every  slash  of  the  leathern 
quirt,  searing  welts  appeared  on  the  lad's  blood- 
covered  shoulders.  The  boy  himself,  clinging 
weakly  to  the  pommel  of  his  saddle,  was  shrieking 
in  agony.  In  his  tormenter's  harsh  brown  face 
was  no  heat  of  passion,  but  cool,  deliberate 
vindictiveness. 

In  a  flash  Carroll  recognized  the  massive, 
square-set  body,  the  head  of  shaggy  blond  hair 
bound  about  with  a  red  kerchief.  It  was  the  surly 
stranger  whose  insolent  gaze  had  met  his  the 
evening  he  had  hearkened  to  the  idle  prophecy  of 
the  Indian  woman. 

Rushing  toward  them,  the  American  grasped 
the  reins  of  the  stranger's  horse,  sending  it  rearing 
on  its  haunches. 

"Senor,  senor,"  he  protested,  "you  forget 
yourself." 

The  blond-haired  man  raised  the  quirt  men 
acingly,  but  the  sight  of  the  blue  uniform  and  the 
steel-like  glint  in  Carroll's  eye  made  him  hesitate. 

"For  Dios,"  he  protested  in  a  deep  bass  voice, 
"the  boy  is  my  servant — he  has  been  disobedient. 
May  I  not—" 


So  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"Since  when,"  came  from  the  lieutenant  in  cool, 
cutting  tones,  "has  it  been  the  custom  of  the 
gente  de  razon  to  thus  chastise  their  servants  — 
and  in  the  public  streets  of  the  pueblo?  To  so 
abuse  a  defenseless  boy  is  the  act  of  a  brute. 
Ride  on,  senor,"  he  ordered  sternly,  "or  I  will 
place  you  under  arrest." 

Carroll's  reference  to  the  gente  de  razon  seemed 
to  sting  the  other  to  the  quick,  and  his  dark 
face  reddened  with  sudden  anger.  For  a  single 
instant  he  bent  on  the  American  a  glance  of  con 
centrated  malignity,  then  with  a  contemptuous 
toss  of  his  shaggy  head  he  walked  his  horse  on  up 
the  street  toward  the  plaza. 

Jim  Marshall,  who  had  paused  but  a  few 
yards  away  to  tighten  the  strap  of  his  pack 
saddle,  had  witnessed  the  encounter  with  a  grim 
smile. 

"Good  work,  lieutenant,"  he  called,  "but  ye 
better  take  keer  of  yerself.  I've  been  hearing 
lots  about  that  yalla-headed  greaser.  He  looks 
to  me  as  full  of  poison  as  a  rattler.  I  '11  bet  he 's 
a  bad  one." 

An  expression  of  disdain  on  his  usually  good- 
humored  face,  the  lieutenant  stood  staring 
thoughtfully  toward  the  plaza,  where  the  blond- 
haired  man  had  disappeared.  He  was  still  specu 
lating  as  to  the  identity  of  the  unknown,  whose 
forbidding  personality  and  heartless  demeanor 


THE  SON  OF  LEO  THE  STRANGER   51 

was  in  such  marked  contrast  to  the  gentle  courtesy 
of  the  men  of  the  pueblo,  when  a  cheery  voice 
hailed  him  from  a  near-by  veranda. 

"The  day  is  hot,  Senor  Lieutenant.  Come 
sit  with  me." 

It  was  Don  Augustin  Alvaro,  a  lean  and  arid 
little  man  with  keen  crinkled  eyes  and  a  scraggly 
gray  mustache.  With  him,  as  with  many  of  the 
foremost  Dons  of  the  pueblo,  Carroll  was  on 
terms  of  friendly  familiarity.  For  some  reason 
he  had  taken  a  strange  liking  to  the  ferret-eyed 
little  gentleman,  whose  dry,  ready  wit  and  quaint 
philosophy  made  him  always  an  interesting 
companion. 

"Who  is  the  caballero  with  the  yellow  hair  who 
passed  just  a  moment  ago?"  queried  Carroll,  as 
he  took  a  seat  by  the  old  man's  side. 

"That,"  said  Don  Augustin,  with  a  con 
temptuous  shrug,  "is  Hugo  Vanuela  of  the  Rancho 
San  Marino.  He  is  not  of  the  genie  de  razon, 
senor,  but  a  "mestizo,"  a  half-blood,  the  son  of 
a  foreigner  and  an  Indian  woman." 

Alvaro  stopped  for  a  moment  to  dip  into  his 
snuffbox.  Carroll  was  silent;  he  knew  from 
Don  Augustin's  manner  that  a  story  was  impend 
ing. 

"I  knew  the  father  of  this  man  Vanuela  very 
well.  Leo  the  Stranger,  we  called  him,  for 
strangers  were  rare  in  California  in  those  days. 


52  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

And  such  a  rude,  brutal,  unmannerly  man  has 
never  been  seen  before  nor  since  in  California. 
From  his  father  Leo,  Vanuela  gets  his  yellow 
hair,  and,  as  you  have  seen  to-day,  other  attributes 
as  well.  It  is  quite  a  tale,  that  of  Leo  and  Arillo, 
and  the  feud  between  them." 

"Don  Jos6  Antonio  Arillo?" 

Alvaro's  sharp  eyes  twinkled  a  little  at  the 
quick  interest  evident  in  the  lieutenant's  query. 

"The  same — Don  Jos6  Antonio.  Now  this 
Leo,"  he  continued,  "was  ambitious,  clever,  and 
intriguing,  and  when,  during  one  of  our  revolu 
tions  many  years  ago,  Don  Jos6  Antonio  was 
exiled  to  Sonora,  Leo  by  craft  obtained  possession 
of  Arillo's  lands  to  the  east  of  the  pueblo.  For 
four  years  Leo  held  them,  but  when  Arillo  returned 
by  stealth  from  Sonora,  and  with  others  headed 
another  revolution  against  the  governor,  Leo 
was  killed  at  the  great  battle  of  San  Fernando. 
And  tne  new  governor  gave  back  to  Don  Jos6 
Antonio  the  rancho  of  the  San  Pasqual,  which 
was  only  just.  But  it  is  said  that  this  Vanuela 
has  never  forgotten  or  forgiven  the  death  of  his 
father,  nor  the  loss  of  the  lands,  and  that  he  has 
sworn  that  he  will  in  time  be  revenged  on  Arillo, 
and  will  have  the  rancho  for  his  own  again. 

"Not  that  alone,  but  well  known  is  it  among 
the  gossips  of  the  pueblo  that  but  last  year  Hugo, 
with  the  unbelievable  effrontery  of  his  father,  he 


THE  SON  OF  LEO  THE  STRANGER   53 

with  the  blood  of  the  despicable  Coahuilas  in  his 
veins,  asked  of  Senor  Arillo  the  hand  of  his 
daughter  in  marriage.  'Tis  said  this,  too,  has  but 
added  fuel  to  his  hate  of  Don  Jose  Antonio. 

"He  has  some  measure  of  wealth,  has  this 
man  Vanuela,  for  Leo  owned  as  well  the  Rancho 
San  Marino,  and  from  there  the  son  sells  much 
cattle,  hides,  and  tallow  to  the  American  ships 
on  the  coast.  Yet  is  there  no  man  or  woman  of 
the  gente  de  razon  who  looks  kindly  ,upon  him. 
Like  his  father,  he  can  never  learn  the  ways  of 
our  people.  He  is  violent  and  masterful.  Though 
Father  Estenaga  of  the  Plaza  Church  laughs  at 
me,  yet  do  I  believe,"  went  on  Don  Augustin, 
"that  Leo,  the  father  of  Vanuela,  was  possessed 
by  the  devil  or  in  league  with  him.  There  is 
much  reason  for  so  thinking.  You  will  remember, 
lieutenant,  the  great  rock  in  the  arroyo  by  the  giant 
oak?  We  rode  by  it  together  one  afternoon." 

Carroll  nodded. 

"That,  senor,  is  the  Devil's  Rock — truly  a  spot 
accursed.  Much  feared  was  it  by  the  Indians 
before  the  coming  of  the  padres,  and  even  yet 
there  are  but  few,  be  they  Indians  or  of  the 
gente  de  razon,  who  do  not  believe  it  to  be  loved  of 
the  evil  one.  But  of  that  spot  Leo,  who  feared 
neither  God,  man,  nor  the  devil,  had  no  fear. 
It  was  his  favorite  haunt.  The  old  Indians 
round  about  the  San  Pasqual  have  told  me  that 


54  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

they  heard  the  man  Leo  more  than  once  singing 
litanies  in  an  unknown  tongue  to  the  devil,  there 
in  the  moonlight." 

Alvaro's  keen  glance  noted  Carroll's  amused 
smile. 

"It  may  have  been  so,  senor,"  he  protested. 
"That  the  devil  has  entered  into  men  we  know 
from  Holy  Writ,  and  why  not  now?  The  evil 
one  is  as  cunning,  and  his  arm  is  as  long,  as  ever 
it  was.  But  again — the  man  Leo  may  have  been 
only  crazy  drunk,  for  in  those  later  days  he  drank 
much  of  the  red  wine  of  the  country,  which  is 
bad,  very  bad  for  foreigners.  With  Spanish  blood 
only  does  it  mix  well." 

"Of  what  nation  was  Leo?" 

"That  I  know  not.  But  more  than  once  have 
I  heard  Padre  Damen,  a  German  priest  of  San 
Fernando,  who  alone  of  all  the  men  in  California, 
perhaps,  Leo  loved,  call  him  with  much  laughter 
*a  Viking,"  whatever  that  may  mean.' 

"You  call  the  son  Vanuela?"  questioned  the 
lieutenant. 

"It's  his  mother's  name,  senor — his  mother's 
Spanish  name.  What  was  Leo's  other  name  we 
never  knew.  From  the  day  he  came  ashore  at 
San  Pedro,  thirty  years  ago,  his  face  wide  open 
with  a  fresh  knife  slash,  to  the  day  he  lay  dead  at 
our  feet  at  San  Fernando,  he  was  a  mystery  and 
a  marvel  to  us  all." 


THE  SON  OF  LEO  THE  STRANGER   55 

"Well,"  said  Carroll  as  he  rose  to  go,  "the  man 
Hugo  is  still  young.  Let  us  be  charitable,  and 
hope  that  he  will  improve  with  years  —  that  he 
will  be  at  least  an  improvement  on  his  father." 

Don  Augustin  lifted  his  shoulders  in  a  shrug  of 
unbelief. 

''I  fear  not,  senor.  His  father  was  a  bad,  bad 
man,  and  his  mother  an  Indian  of  the  Coahuilas — 
though  mission  bred.  The  blood  in  his  veins  is 
all  bad,  and  against  that  the  prayers  of  the  Virgin 
and  the  saints  can  avail  but  little — though  the 
good  Lord  pardon  me  for  saying  it." 


CHAPTER  V 
ENGLAND'S  AGENT 

HPHE  dingy  little  room  was  dusty,  unswept, 
•••  and  festooned  with  grimy  cobwebs  hanging 
in  the  dark  corners.  On  the  cracked  and  time- 
soiled  walls  the  distorted  shadows  of  the  two  men 
at  the  table,  stirred  to  life  by  the  idle  flickering 
of  the  candle  flame,  swayed  grotesquely. 

Hugo  Vanuela  threw  down  his  cards  with  a 
muttered  oath. 

"The  devil  himself  is  in  the  cards  to-night — I 
can  win  nothing."  He  reached  over  to  the  bottle, 
and  filled  the  glass  with  red  wine. 

The  other,  a  big  bearded  man  in  the  leather 
leggings  of  a  vaquero,  gathered  up  the  cards  and 
laid  them  aside  in  a  neat  pile.  Pocketing  the 
coin  on  the  table,  he  remarked  philosophically,  as 
he  lifted  the  candle  to  light  his  cigarette : 

"Truly,  Sefior  Vanuela,  it  comes  in  that  manner, 
sometimes,  to  all  of  us.  But  before  we  began  at 
the  cards  you  were  saying  that  Governor  Pico 
and  Commandant  Castro  were  quarreling  before 
the  Americans  came." 

"Yes,  for  nearly  a  year — always.  Then  Castro 
went  north.  Then  there  came  into  the  San 
Joaquin  Valley  this  American  Fremont,  with  his 
fur  traders  and  trappers.  Later  they  made  a 

56 


ENGLAND'S  AGENT  57 

revolution  and  seized  Sonoma.  Then  Commodore 
Stockton  and  his  ships  came  to  Monterey.  Com 
mandant  Castro  tried  to  raise  men  for  an  army 
to  fight  the  American,  while  Don  Pio  Pico  was 
,  here  asking  for  men  to  fight  Castro. 

"Both  Pico  and  Castro  wrote  haughty  letters 
to  one  another,  and  made  proclamations.  It  is 
all  very  funny  now,  as  one  looks  back — the  Ameri 
cans  came  so  soon.  Then  both  Pico  and  Castro 
returned  to  the  pueblo  with  their  little  armies, 
and  embraced.  But,"  he  added  with  a  shrug  of 
his  shoulders,  "the  people  did  not  want  to  fight." 

"Was  the  legislature  in  session  when  they 
returned  to  the  south?"  asked  the  bearded  man, 
as  he  shot  a  sly,  sidewise  glance  at  the  Californian. 

"Yes,  senor,  they  were  busy  with  the  plan  of 
Padre  MacNamara.  Pico,  after  he  came  back, 
favored  the  plan.  After  talking  for  a  whole 
week,  they  adopted  it." 

"MacNamara — I  do  not  think  I  have  heard  of 
him."  Again  his  full  brown  eyes,  from  between 
his  half-closed  eyelids,  were  stealthily  searching 
Vanuela's  face. 

"Santa  Maria,  but  that  was  a  plan!"  Hugo 
continued,  with  a  flash  of  enthusiasm.  "That 
Padre  MacNamara,  por  Dios,  but  he  was  a  man ! — 
taller  even  than  you,  and  broad  —  like  a  church 
door.  To  the  legislature  he  talked  for  hours,  for 
days,  and  held  them  listening  like  children.  He 


58  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

asked  them  for  much  land  in  the  north,  whereon 
to  settle  many  thousand  of  his  countrymen,  the 
people  of  Ireland;  for  the  Irish,  as  you  may  not 
know,  senor,  are  Catholics,  and  not  heretics  like 
the  English  and  Americans." 

The  ghost  of  a  smile  showed  under  the  black 
beard,  and  the  listener  nodded  silently. 

"There  were  many  rich  men  of  England  with 
the  padre  in  his  plan,  men  with  great  connections, 
and  had  it  been  but  a  few  months  earlier  it  would 
have  saved  us  from  the  coming  of  these  cursed 
Americans.  If  it  had  been  in  time,  England 
would  never  have  permitted  California  to  be  taken 
away  from  them,  and  the  American  commodore 
would  not  have  dared  to  place  his  flag  on  the 
customhouse  at  Monterey.  For  English  ships 
with  many  cannon  were  there  in  the  bay  at  the 
time." 

"Truly,  a  magnificent  plan!  As  you  say,  it 
would  have  made  a  great  nation  of  California, — 
a  great  Christian  nation." 

Through  the  closed  door  came  the  raucous  roar 
of  a  drinking  song,  and  the  maudlin  laughter  of 
intoxication. 

"And  the  people?"  queried  the  bearded  one. 
"Are  they  satisfied  with  the  present  regime?" 

"Ten  thousand  devils,  no!  They  hate  the 
Americans.  Not  a  cockfight  since  they  entered 
the  pueblo.  One  cannot  go  on  the  street  after 


ENGLAND'S  AGENT  59 

sunset  without  a  piece  of  paper  from  the  American 
officer  at  the  stockade.  To  have  a  'ball',  where 
one  may  dance  with  his  friends,  one  must  almost 
go  on  his  knees  to  the  American.  But  what  will 
you?  They  suffer  and  hate,  but  submit."  Hugo 
shrugged  his  shoulders  contemptuously.  "The 
genie  de  razon  have  all  signed  the  parole  not  to 
fight  against  the  Americans — the  rest  are  as  sheep." 

"Have  you  signed  the  parole?" 

The  brown  face  of  Vanuela  reddened,  and  he 
answered  shortly,  "No." 

"And  the  wonderful  MacNamara,"  inquired  the 
other  lazily,  "what  became  of  him?" 

"That  I  cannot  say.  Some  believe  that  he  is 
in  Mexico  City." 

"He  is  not." 

Hugo  stared  and  stared  at  him  wonderingly. 
The  bearded  one  was  on  his  feet  now,  his  gaze 
holding  the  Californian.  The  man  seemed  trans 
formed;  gone  was  the  lackadaisical  air  of  careless 
indolence.  The  quivering  light  of  the  candles 
revealed  his  immense  height,  his  broad  shoulders, 
the  strong  lines  of  his  features,  the  piercing  keen 
ness  of  his  glance,  and  the  bold  assurance  in  his 
full  brown  eye.  His  very  personality  radiated 
power,  but  his  smile,  as  he  gazed  at  Vanuela,  was 
seductive  and  winning. 

"He  is  here,"  he  said  quietly. 

Vanuela  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  stepped  back. 


60    THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Then,  as  his  glance  swept  the  other's  countenance 
— the  full,  broad  brow,  the  masterful  gaze — the 
light  of  recognition  came  into  the  Calif ornian's  face. 

"So— you  are—" 

"Padre  MacNamara,  at  your  service.  Three 
months  in  the  hills  have  given  me  this."  He 
touched  his  beard  with  his  hand. 

"You  do  not  seem  overcome  with  joy  at  seeing 
me,  my  friend."  He  showed  his  white  teeth  in  a 
smile,  a  smile  that  in  many  lands  had  won  its 
way  to  the  hearts  of  men  and  women  alike. 

Vanuela  regarded  him  for  a  moment,  distrust 
showing  in  every  line  of  his  countenance. 

"So-o-o,"  he  said  slowly.  "But  why  do  you 
tell  me  this?  What  is  to  prevent  me  from  inform 
ing  the  Americans  ? " 

MacNamara  laughed.  "Because,  my  friend, 
I  know  men,  and  you  are  not  the  man  to  betray 
to  the  enemies  of  your  country  one  who  has 
drunk  with  you.  Especially  when  it  is  your 
much  admired  MacNamara,  the  continuation  of 
whose  life  and  the  success  of  whose  plans  mean 
so  much  to  your  country." 

Again  the  radiant,  winning  smile  illumined  his 
face,  and  in  spite  of  himself,  Vanuela  smiled  back. 

"You  judged  rightly,"  he  said,  as  he  grasped 
MacNamara's  hand.  ' '  But  your  great  plan  avails 
nothing  now;  it  is  too  late." 

MacNamara  pounded  on  the  table  with  the 


ENGLAND'S  AGENT  61 

bottle,  and  the  innkeeper  appeared  with  a  new 
supply  of  wine. 

"Not  so,  my  friend,"  he  resumed.  "It  is  not 
too  late." 

"But  all  the  genie  de  razon  are  with  the  Ameri 
cans.  They  have  given  their  parole  not  to  fight 
against  the  United  States.  They  will  not  do 
anything." 

"Are  you  ready  to  do  anything?" 

"Not  without  the  support  of  the  men  who  have 
given  their  parole.  It  would  be  useless." 

"Then,"  MacNamara  said,  after  a  moment's 
thought,  "they  must  be  made  to  break  their 
parole.  Is  this  list  complete?"  He  drew  a 
paper  from  his  pocket.  "Listen,  Arguello,  Avila, 
Arriaga,  Bandini,  Arillo — " 

"A  little  information  I  would  ask,"  broke  in 
Vanuela.  "What  is  the  punishment  for  breaking 
a  parole?'* 

"Shooting — file  of  soldiers — a  stone  wall,  per 
haps  hanging.  Arillo,  Reyes,  Cota,  Pico,"  he 
went  on. 

At  the  word  "Arillo,"  and  the  picture  evoked  by 
MacNamara's  disjointed  words,  the  Californian 
looked  up  quickly,  the  baleful  gladness  of  an  evil 
inspiration  in  his  gleaming  eyes.  He  moistened 
his  dry  lips  with  his  tongue,  and  the  hand  holding 
the  cigar  trembled,  sending  the  ash  cone  on  the 
end  in  a  soft  shower  to  the  floor. 


"So-o-o,"  said  Vanuela. 

He  arose,  took  a  turn  across  the  room,  and  then 
reached  out  his  hand  to  MacNamara. 

"In  this  I  am  yours  to  command,  completely, 
senor." 

"Good;  I  knew  I  had  not  mistaken  my  man. 
Yes,  a  parole  broken  means  death,  according  to 
the  laws  of  war.  But  there  is  no  fear  of  that, 
and  for  this  reason.  Listen,  my  friend."  He 
bent  over  the  table  till  his  face  was  close  to  the 
other's,  and  spoke  in  a  low  tone.  "There  are 
six  ships  of  the  British  fleet  now  on  the  coast. 
Five  more,  I  believe,  are  on  their  way  around 
Cape  Horn.  As  soon  as  the  revolt  is  successful 
our  ships  will  land  men  at  Monterey  and  Santa 
Barbara,  and  hold  both  towns.  With  all  stock 
and  horses  driven  away  from  the  beach,  and  it 
blockaded,  the  American  troops  will  be  hemmed 
in  by  land  and  sea.  Their  position  will  be  hope 
less.  It  is  not  too  late ;  now  is  the  appointed  time." 

There  was  that  in  the  deep  chest  tones  of  the 
man,  in  the  steadiness  and  sureness  of  his  gaze, 
and  the  earnestness  of  his  demeanor  that  carried 
conviction. 

The  Californian  raised  his  eyebrows.  "Ah,  you 
are  no  priest." 

' '  Priest,  no,"  MacNamara  laughed  easily.  "No, 
an  English  officer,  born  and  raised  in  Gib 
raltar —  hence  my  command  of  your  beautiful 


ENGLAND'S  AGENT  63 

language.  But  to  get  b°ck — the  men  on  the 
list  must  be  forced  to  move.  If  the  Americans 
can  be  plagued  into  some  act  of  rashness  now, 
while  the  town  is  a  seething  mass  of  discontent, 
the  rest  will  be  easy.  If  once  shots  are  fired  and 
blood  is  spilled — hold,  I  have  it.  There  will  be 
much  drinking  next  Friday,  a  week  from  to-day; 
it  is  Mexican  Independence  Day.  Cannot  we  use 
the  rabble  for  the  purpose  of  scaring  the  sentry 
at  the  gate  of  the  stockade?  Have  them  beat 
drums  and  shoot.  If  we  can  organize  a  drunken 
frolic,  with  plenty  of  noise,  perhaps  the  Americans 
will  fire.  If  they  do,  it  is  well;  if  not,  there  is 
nothing  lost.  Everything  can  be  explained.  What 
think  you?" 

Vanuela  smiled  and  nodded.  In  his  heart  he 
much  doubted  the  success  of  any  revolt  against 
the  Americans — but  the  picture  of  Don  Jose 
Antonio  Arillo  facing  the  firing  squad,  his  back 
against  a  stone  wall,  had  him  in  its  grip,  and  was 
tantalizing  him  with  its  possibility.  He  would 
work  with  MacNamara  as  far  as  the  Englishman's 
plans  coincided  with  his  own,  and  at  present  they 
both  desired  to  drive  into  open  revolt  the  men 
who  had  signed  the  paroles.  But  he  had  no 
desire  to  see  the  revolt  a  success.  The  Americans 
would  win  in  the  end,  and  then,  for  Arillo,  the 
rope  or  the  bullet.  However,  let  the  future 
take  care  of  itself. 


64  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"There  is  a  crowd  of  wild  young  fools  in  the 
city  who,  I  am  told,"  he  said,  "play  at  revolution, 
and  call  one  of  their  number  'governor'  and 
another  'commandant.'  With  plenty  of  wine, 
yes,  it  can  be  done." 

MacNamara  drew  from  his  pocket  a  handful 
of  gold.  "Take  this  to  wet  the  throats  of  your 
gay  young  friends,  and  deepen  their  ardor." 

Vanuela,  ever  avaricious,  gathered  it  up;  it 
was  a  hundredfold  what  he  had  lost  at  cards. 

Laying  his  hand  on  Hugo's  shoulder,  the  other 
said  seriously: 

"You  are  to  do  a  great  work  for  California 
to-day,  mi  amigo,  and  when  the  British  flag  floats 
over  this  city  you  will  not  be  forgotten.  Long 
after  you  and  I  have  crumbled  into  dust  the 
story  of  to-night's  doings  shall  be  a  tale  that  shall 
be  told  to  little  children  in  the  days  to  come." 

Vanuela,  as  he  noted  the  flash  of  the  other's 
eyes  and  the  ring  of  enthusiasm  in  his  voice, 
looked  his  uncomprehending  wonder;  but  he 
shrewdly  resisted  the  desire  to  shrug  his  shoulders, 
and  answered  gravely: 

"I  believe  it,  sefior." 

With  his  hand  on  the  door,  he  turned  to  the 
Englishman.  "But  still,  I  do  not  understand. 
Suppose  that  you  had  been  mistaken,  and 
that  after  I  had  heard  your  plan  I  had  not 
agreed?" 


ENGLAND'S  AGENT  65 

"It  would  not  have  happened;  but  if,  unfor 
tunately,  it  did,  well — I  would  have  killed  you, 
my  friend.  We  were  alone — there  were  no  wit 
nesses — a  row  at  cards — with  wine — 't  is  common 
enough." 

For  fully  an  hour  Vanuela  sat  on  the  shaded 
front  of  the  wine  shop,  smoking  endless  cigarettes 
and  whistling  snatches  of  a  bugle  call,  his  brooding 
face  ever  turned  toward  the  white  wall  of  the 
stockade.  Then,  pulling  his  sombrero  closer 
over  his  face,  he  walked  boldly  across  the  street 
and  into  the  inclosure. 

As  he  stepped  noiselessly  into  Gillie's  office  the 
captain  stopped  massaging  his  lip  for  a  moment, 
and  looked  up  in  surprise. 

' '  Have  I  the  honor  of  addressing  Sefior  Captain 
Gillie?" 

"Yes;  what  is  it?" 

Vanuela  glanced  meaningly  at  the  door  leading 
to  the  next  room. 

"What  I  have  to  tell  the  captain  is  for  his  ears 
alone."  He  motioned  toward  the  door. 

"Carruthers,"  the  American  called,  "take  your 
position  ten  paces  farther  down  the  veranda,  and 
admit  no  one  until  further  orders."  He  turned 
toward  the  newcomer.  "What  is  your  name?" 

"Hugo  Vanuela,  senor,  from  the  Rancho  San 
Marino.  I  am  one  of  those,  I  would  have  the 
captain  know,  to  whom  the  coming  of  the 


66    THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Americans  was  welcome — very  welcome.  They 
will  always  have  my  support  and  sympathy  in 
all  things."  He  paused  to  note  the  effect  of 
his  words,  but  the  officer's  face  was  inscrutable. 

"Good;  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.     Proceed." 

' '  I  would  warn  the  captain  to  be  careful.  There 
is  much  discontent  in  the  pueblo.  The  people 
are  restless  and  dissatisfied.  They  do  not  like 
the  regulations  that  the  Senor  Captain  has 
established." 

"Yes,  I  have  suspected  as  much.  Oh,  they 
will  get  used  to  them  in  time.  Do  you  know  of 
anything  definite?" 

Vanuela  hesitated.  "Ah,  the  senor,  like  all 
Americans,  goes  straight  to  the  point — a  wonderful 
people.  Yes — so  quick  they  do  everything. 
Nothing  have  I  heard  but  rumors,  it  being  difficult 
for  me  to  find  the  truth,  because  my  friendship  for 
the  captain's  countrymen  is  well  known.  But 
this  much  is  certain,  senor,  that  there  are  meetings 
being  held,  secretly,  and  often." 

Gillie's  hand  left  his  lip ;  he  was  all  attention  now. 

"Where,  and  who  attend  them?"  he  asked,  as 
he  took  up  his  pen  and  drew  a  sheet  of  paper 
toward  him. 

"That  I  cannot  say  positively,  senor,  but  I 
fear  that  it  is  at  the  home  of  Don  Jos6  Antonio 
Arillo.  Of  that  I  cannot  be  really  sure,  and  can 
offer  no  proof,  except  that  it  is  plain,  in  case  of 


ENGLAND'S  AGENT  67 

fighting,  he  is  the  one  man  they  depend  upon  to 
lead  them." 

"Arillo, —  oh,  yes,  formerly  alcalde,  a  tall, 
dark  man, — lives  over  there  on  the  corner  of  the 
plaza.  He  was  one  of  the  first  to  sign  the  parole." 

Vanuela  held  up  a  warning  hand. 

"A  little  patience,  senor;  I  would  do  nothing 
hastily.  It  may  be, — you  see  I  wish  to  be  just, 
— it  may  be  that  I  do  Senor  Arillo  injustice.  All 
I  can  tell  you  is  the  talk  of  the  street.  I  would 
do  nothing  at  present.  It  would  be  a  mistake 
to  proceed  against  him.  Have  I  the  permission 
of  the  senor  to  pretend  friendliness  toward  this 
movement,  so  that  in  this  way  I  may  come  by 
information  that  may  be  of  value  to  you?" 
He  blew  a  long  white  streak  of  smoke.  "It  will 
be  easy  for  me  to  obtain  information, —  then  they 
will  trust  me." 

"You  wish  to  act  as  a  spy  for  us?" 

"Ah,  it  is  not  a  nice  word,  sefior,  that  'spy,' — 
say  rather  a  watchful  friend.  But  I  wish  the 
captain  to  understand,  so  that  if  I  appear  to  be 
implicated  I  shall  be  protected  from  evil  results. 
Have  I  permission  to  so  act?  Is  it  understood 
between  us?" 

"It  is  a  good  idea,  Senor  Vanuela,  and  I  wish 
we  had  more  friends  like  you.  We  need  them, 
and  you  may  be  sure  that  your  loyalty  is  duly 
appreciated." 


68  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Vanuela  smiled  in  his  slow,  easy  way. 

"So-o-o.  The  Senor  Captain  is  kind,  but 
perhaps  he  overrates  my  abilities.  It  is  possible 
I  may  be  mistaken,  but  I  fear  not.  I  shall  come 
to  the  senor  very  often.  Perhaps  I  shall  find  or 
hear  nothing,  and  if  so  it  will  be  well  indeed: 
but  if  I  do,  the  captain  shall  know  of  it,  most 
assuredly." 

Hardly  had  Vanuela  stepped  out  into  the  dark 
ness  when  Jim  Marshall  strolled  in  leisurely. 
The  frontiersman's  wrinkled  eyes,  looking  at 
Gillie  from  under  his  broad-brimmed  hat,  were 
keen  and  eager. 

"Say,  captain, — 

"Have  you  forgotten  how  to  salute  an  officer, 
Marshall?" 

"Oh,  say,  excuse  me,  captain,  I  niver  kin 
recollect  them  military  ways;  but  no  offense  — 
anything  to  oblige.  Now  them  thar  old  guns  of 
Castro's  livin1  out  thar  in  the  stockade — they're 
in  pretty  fair  shape,  'cept  for  the  spikin',  and  I 
kin  take  that  out  with  acid.  Kin  ye  get  any 
acid,  captain?" 

"I  will  think  about  it,  Marshall,  and  will  let 
you  know  my  decision  later.  Meanwhile,  there 
are  more  important  things  to  attend  to.  Get 
your  carpenter  tools  and  repair  the  guardhouse 
doors.  Some  of  the  veranda  posts  are  loose. 
You  will  repair  them  at  once,  you  understand." 


ENGLAND'S  AGENT  69 

"All  right,  captain." 

Marshall's  long  jaw  crunched  on  the  tobacco 
that  lumped  visibly  in  his  hollow,  unshaven  cheek. 

"Now  about  that  acid,  captain — " 

"That  will  do,  Marshall;  you  may  go.  Have 
the  work  finished  by  to-morrow  night." 

The  frontiersman  gone,  the  captain's  thoughts 
reverted  to  Vanuela.  He  was  far  from  being 
favorably  impressed  by  the  Californian.  It  was 
altogether  probable  that  the  fellow  was  trying, 
in  his  clumsy  Mexican  way,  to  curry  favor  with 
him  in  order  to  more  easily  obtain  future  favors 
in  the  form  of  permits.  Still,  one  could  not  tell; 
they  were  a  strange  people,  and  if  there  was 
nothing  to  be  gained,  if  Vanuela's  suspicions 
were  unfounded,  there  was  at  least  nothing  to 
be  lost.  And  if  it  should  happen  that  there  was 
trouble  brewing,  then  it  would  be  well  to  have  a 
spy  among  the  enemy.  As  for  Arillo,  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done  at  present.  The  mere  rumors 
of  the  wine  rooms  and  the  streets  were  not  suffi 
cient.  For  Gillie,  with  all  his  peculiarities,  was 
a  just  man,  according  to  his  lights.  One  thing, 
however,  he  must  do  —  he  must  keep  the  fact 
that  Vanuela  was  now  practically  a  spy  in  the 
service  of  the  Americans  a  secret  even  from  his 
own  officers.  To  have  it  leak  out  might  possibly 
destroy  the  man's  usefulness. 

He  did  not  know  that  the  keen  eyes  of  John 


70  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Carroll  had  noted  the  Californian  leaving  the 
office.  To  make  sure  that  he  had  made  no 
mistake,  he  hurried  out  the  gate  and  crossed  the 
street,  thus  coming  face  to  face  with  Vanuela. 
The  lieutenant  looked  at  him  searchingly.  Neither 
spoke,  but  both  must  have  felt  an  instinctive  hos 
tility,  for  in  their  souls  at  that  moment  was  born 
a  dislike  so  bitter  that  death  alone  could  eradi 
cate  it. 


CHAPTER  VI 
MARSHALL'S  WARNING 

'-pWENTY-FIVE  men,  booted  and  spurred 
•*•  and  equipped  for  weeks  on  the  hills  and 
plains,  sat  on  their  horses  within  the  stockade, 
awaiting  the  word  of  command  to  march.  They 
were  Benito  Willard's  company  of  militia, 
organized  some  weeks  before  at  the  suggestion 
of  Stockton. 

Years  before  the  commodore  had  hoisted  his 
flag  in  the  plaza,  there  had  been  foreigners 
resident  in  the  pueblo.  Some  had  deserted  from 
sailing  ships,  others  had  been  sent  out  by  the 
Boston  trading  companies,  whose  vessels  visited 
the  coast  every  year,  bartering  for  hides  and 
tallow.  Charmed  by  the  indolent,  care-free  life 
of  the  people,  and  won  by  the  ever  spring-like 
climate,  they  had  remained,  and  in  due  time 
had  taken  to  themselves  Californian  wives  and 
learned  to  speak  the  language  of  the  land  with 
a  guttural  utterance.  A  few  of  the  members  of 
the  company  were  English,  and  a  few  French, 
but  all  were  equally  anxious  for  the  vitalizing 
effect  of  American  rule. 

Among  the  Americans  none  stood  higher  with 
the  Calif ornians  than  Ben  Willard,  or  "Don 
Benito,"  as  they  called  him.  His  sterling  honesty, 

71 


72    THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

his  strength  of  character,  and  his  kindliness 
had  so  won  their  hearts  that,  though  he  was  not 
a  Mexican  citizen,  they  had  insisted  on  his 
serving  as  alcalde  of  the  eastern  district  where 
his  rancho,  the  Hurupa,  was  located.  He  owned 
one  of  the  few  stores  in  the  pueblo,  and  had 
taken  to  wife  a  daughter  of  one  of  the  foremost 
Californian  families.  It  was  with  great  reluctance 
that  Willard  had  accepted  Stockton's  commission 
as  captain  of  the  militia  company.  His  warm 
feeling  for  the  people  among  whom  he  had  found 
a  home  made  him  averse  to  serving  in  a  military 
capacity,  even  though  there  seemed  little  prob 
ability  of  further  hostilities. 

In  spite  of  lack  of  inches  there  was  about 
Ben  Willard,  as  with  Will  Harbin  his  lieutenant 
he  stood  on  the  veranda  listening  to  Captain 
Gillie 's  final  instructions,  an  air  of  reserved  force 
that  unconsciously  inspired  confidence  and  re 
spect.  His  deep  hazel  eyes  were  quietly  quizzi 
cal,  but  there  was  keenness  and  decision  in  his 
thin  lips  and  closely  set  mouth. 

1 '  I  have  reliable  information  that  Commandant 
Castro  is  in  Cucumonga  Canon,  and  that  he  is 
secretly  recruiting  a  large  body  of  men.  Bring 
him  in,  dead  or  alive,"  Gillie  was  saying. 

Hugo  Vanuela,  seated  idly  on  a  neighboring 
veranda, —  one  would  fancy  half  asleep, —  with 
a  satisfied  smile  watched  the  cavalcade  as  it 


MARSHALL'S  WARNING  73 

rode  away.  It  was  he  who  had  carried  to  the 
American  commander  the  imaginary  rumor  of 
the  commandant's  whereabouts.  The  idea  had 
originated  with  MacNamara,  who,  knowing  Gil 
lie's  anxiety  to  add  to  his  laurels  by  capturing 
Castro,  had  concocted  the  story. 

The  plot  worked  exactly  as  the  two  had  hoped. 
It  robbed  the  city  of  its  best  defense,  for  the 
men  who  had  ridden  away  were  the  only  ones 
who  could  have  suppressed  a  revolution  in  the 
city.  These  men  knew  the  Calif ornian  spirit; 
they  were  influential  in  council,  and  while  they 
remained  there  was  little  chance  of  an  uprising. 

As  the  handful  swung  out  into  the  open  road 
at  a  quick  canter,  not  one  among  them  dreamed 
that  there  would  be  trouble  during  their  absence. 
They  did  not  know  that  a  British  secret  agent  was 
planning  for  the  capture  of  the  garden  of  America, 
and  that  there  were  days  when  the  future  owner 
ship  of  California  hung  trembling  in  the  balance 
among  a  trio  of  American,  British,  and  Mex 
ican  rival  nations.  Except  for  Lieutenant  John 
Carroll,  there  was  not  a  man  left  in  the  city 
of  Los  Angeles  capable  of  handling  a  situation 
such  as  MacNamara  could  inspire  and  Vanuela 
execute. 

The  breach  between  Carroll  and  Gillie  had 
widened  recently.  Carroll  had  not  been  taken 
into  Gillie's  confidence  in  regard  to  Vanuela's 


74  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

frequent  visits,  and  the  lieutenant  was  piqued 
because  this  evidence  of  trust  was  withheld  from 
a  subordinate  whose  experience  and  knowledge 
of  the  people  were  valuable. 

Indeed,  Gillie  had  for  a  time  contemplated 
sending  Carroll  with  Willard's  company,  and 
the  heart  of  the  soldier  almost  stood  still  with 
the  first  fear  he  had  ever  known. 

Some  trivial  incident  had  diverted  Gillie  from 
his  purpose,  and  the  lieutenant  heaved  a  sigh 
of  relief  as  a  cloud  of  dust,  mounting  to  the 
evening  sky,  announced  that  the  company  had 
passed  beyond  all  danger  of  being  overtaken, 
even  should  the  captain  change  his  mind. 

For  Jack  Carroll  had  made  up  his  mind  that 
to-night  was  the  night  of  all  nights  in  his  life. 
To-night  he  was  to  call  at  the  house  of  Arillo 
and  ask  the  Don  for  the  hand  of  his  daughter. 
A  more  cautious  man  would  have  sought  out 
some  friend,  say  Don  Augustin  Alvaro,  told 
of  his  purpose,  and  asked  his  cooperation; 
roundabout  negotiations  would  have  folio  wed  f 
with  probably  the  same  result.  But  Carroll 
was  an  American.  He  felt  that  the  way  had 
been  sufficiently  paved  by  the  former  meeting; 
Loreto's  clinging  arm  and  her  worshiping  eyes  had 
told  him  her  answer  to  his  yet  unspoken  question. 

He  was  willing,  even  anxious,  to  give  the  parents 
all  due  deference,  but  suspense  was  maddening, 


MARSHALL'S  WARNING  75 

and  he  determined  that  the  "mafiana"  of  the 
land  should  not  thwart  his  happiness  for  a  single 
hour. 

Across  the  stockade,  a  marine  unlocked  a  door 
and  released  Marshall,  who  had  been  serving  time 
in  the  guardhouse  as  punishment  for  overstay 
ing  his  leave  of  absence. 

"Coin'  courtin',  lootenant?"  queried  Marshall 
in  a  low  tone,  as  Carroll  passed  him. 

"Possibly,"  replied  Carroll  with  a  guilty  look. 
Somehow  he  felt  that  behind  all  Marshall's 
unmilitary  familiarity  there  lay  a  deep  concern 
for  his  welfare,  and  every  jocular  remark  had 
in  it  a  ring  of  solicitude  that  went  straight  to 
his  heart. 

"That's  right,  my  boy,"  he  mused.  "Good 
women  is  the  finest  things  in  the  world.  There 
ware  n't  any  women  whar  I  spent  most  of  my 
life.  Perhaps  I'd  a  done  better  if  I'd  a  stayed 
where  they  wuz.  This  life  has  n't  got  me  any- 
thin'  but  wealth,  and  now  that  I  have  that  I 
could  n't  enjoy  myself  among  civilized  folks. 
I'd  just  be  miserable  back  in  the  States,  walkin' 
on  sidewalks  and  goin'  to  church  and  wearin* 
store  clothes.  Jehosophat!" 

He  shuddered  at  the  idea. 

"Wealthy?"  queried  Carroll  in  surprise. 

Marshall  stammered  awkwardly.  "Wa-all, 
I've  been  a  pretty  good  trader,  John,"  he  replied 


76  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

evasively,  "and  I  could  gather  up  a  bit,  I  suppose. 
Perhaps  when  I  got  back  to  the  States,  what  I  've 
put  away  would  n't  look  much.  I  want  to  tell 
you  somethin',  son." 

"Well?"  said  Carroll,  somewhat  amazed. 

"Don't  postpone  any  weddin'  for  lack  of  chink. 
Go  'long,  now." 

Carroll  turned  away,  marveling  at  the  remark. 
He  knew  questions  were  useless.  Marshall's 
final  word  was  always,  "Go  'long."  When 
the  frontiersman  uttered  those  words,  it  was 
a  sign  that  the  conversation  had  ended. 

Marshall  walked  over  and  inspected  the 
stockade  gate. 

"Ain't  much  to  them  gates.  A  ten-year-old 
boy  with  a  good  copper-toed  boot  could  kick  a 
hole  through  this  one.  And  that  bar  is  shaky, 
too." 

Brooks,  a  typical  marine,  nodded  and  grinned. 
Concerned  only  in  obeying  orders  as  they  came 
to  him,  day  by  day,  Marshall's  inquisitive  ini 
tiative  and  restless  speculation  were  to  him  a 
never-ending  source  of  amusement. 

"Ain't  worrying  me  none.  It's  the  captain's 
business,"  he  remarked. 

Marshall  strode  over  to  the  veranda  where 
Gillie  stood,  and  saluted  awkwardly. 

"Say,  captain,  about  that  acid  — 

"I  have  decided  not  to  bother  with  the  guns, 


MARSHALL'S  WARNING  77 

Marshall;  they  are  not  worth  it.  And  by  the 
way,  continue  your  repair  work  on  that  veranda 
over  there.  It  is  in  even  worse  condition  than 
was  this." 

Marshall's  brow  wrinkled,  and  he  hesitated  a 
moment. 

"Captain,  could  I  see  you  alone  for  a  moment?" 

Together  they  walked  into  the  office,  and 
there  the  frontiersman  came  to  the  point  in  his 
usual  direct  way. 

"Captain  Gillie,  there  is  surely  somethin* 
brewin'  up  in  the  town.  You  think  you  have 
all  of  Castro's  guns  out  there,  but  only  last 
night  I  chanced  to  overhear  two  fellahs  in  a 
wine  shop  talkin'  of  a  cannon — a  brass  cannon — 
buried  somewhere  in  a  garden  or  cornfield. 
They  saw  me  listenin',  and  quit  talkin';  but 
before  they  did,  I  had  got  that  much  of  it, 
anyway." 

The  captain  smiled  sarcastically. 

"My  good  man,"  he  said  patronizingly,  "your 
good  intentions  do  you  infinite  credit,  but  I 
fear  you  have  'cannon'  on  the  brain.  I  know 
positively  we  have  all  the  guns  Castro  ever  had, 
and  besides,  you  ought  to  know  enough  about 
these  people  to  know  they  have  no  real  intention 
of  resistance.  They  like  to  fuss  and  talk  and 
threaten,  after  filling  themselves  with  wine,  and 
that  is  all  they  will  ever  do." 


78  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"Ya-a-s,  I  know,"  Marshall  admitted  reluc 
tantly.  "They're  great  on  plottin'  and  yellin', 
and  not  much  on  fightin',  but  I  don't  trust 
them  none.  Now  about  that  acid  for  them 
guns.  It  would  n't  take  more  than  — " 

"Marshall,"  the  officer  snapped  with  an  air 
of  irritation,  "I  don't  want  you  to  mention 
either  acid  or  guns  to  me  again.  You  may  go 
now." 

"About  them  gates,  captain;  they  ain't  none 
too  strong.  Them  bars,  too,  is  mighty  shaky." 

"Never  mind  the  gates.  Fix  the  other  veranda 
as  ordered.  Your  business  is  to  obey  orders, 
not  to  make  suggestions.  You  may  go,"  he 
repeated. 

Marshall  grinned  philosophically,  and  as  the 
captain  a  half-hour  later  passed  out  the  gate  he 
noted  him  at  work,  whistling  cheerfully  at  his 
appointed  task.  But  directly  he  had  passed, 
Marshall  seated  himself  lazily  on  the  steps, 
and,  producing  from  his  pocket  a  long  roll  of 
brown  tobacco,  drew  from  his  sheath  a  huge 
hunting  knife,  and  proceeded  to  cut  off  a  piece. 

"Wa-a-al,  thar's  what  I  call  a  mighty  cock 
sure  little  bit  of  a  man.  Sooner  or  later  that 
fellah  will  get  a  jolt  that  will  rattle  his  spine," 
he  said  to  Brooks,  who  was  pacing  up  and  down 
behind  him. 

"Now    he    don't    care    for    suggestions,    and 


MARSHALL'S  WARNING  79 

I'd  think  that  any  darned  fool  would  take  a 
suggestion  if  it  was  a  good  one,  even  if  it  came 
from  Old  Nick  himself." 

Brooks  chuckled.  "You  had  better  not  let 
the  captain  hear  you  calling  him  a  darned  fool. 
You  might  find  yourself  in  the  guardhouse  again." 

"I  ain't  done  it — not  me.  But  say,  you 
military  man,  could  they  put  any  one  in  the 
guardhouse  for  just  thinkin'  the  captain  is  a 
fool?" 

"No,  I  think  not — of  course  not." 

Marshall  took  off  his  hat  and  scratched  his 
head  thoughtfully.  "Wa-a-al,"  he  said  with 
an  air  of  compromise,  "we '11  just  let  it  go  at  that." 

He  looked  cautiously  around — at  the  pacing 
marine,  at  the  veranda  across  the  stockade,  at 
the  gate  where  Gillie  had  disappeared.  Then 
with  a  broad  grin  of  reckless  determination 
he  gathered  up  his  tools,  walked  over  to  the 
gate,  and  began  work  on  it. 

"Orders  is  orders,  all  right,  all  right,"  he 
soliloquized,  "but  greasers  is  greasers,  and  gates 
is  gates — except  this  one,  which  ain't  no  gate 
at  all." 

He  took  off  his  coat  and  threw  it  on  the  ledge 
at  the  foot  of  the  wall,  then,  after  a  moment's 
fumbling,  removed  from  the  pocket  some  papers, 
and  lastly  a  leathern  pouch.  Its  weight  made 
him  smile. 


8o  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"Jehosophat!  What  a  haul  that  'ud  be  for 
a  greaser!"  He  smiled  as  he  slipped  it  into  his 
trousers  pocket.  "I'll  have  to  bank  this  with 
the  rest,  to-night." 

He  looked  at  a  beetle  crawling  on  the  sand 
at  his  feet. 

"The  people  of  this  community,  and  you, 
Mister  Bug,  got  jest  about  the  same  amount  of 
hoss  sense,"  he  mused.  "The  captain  don't  know 
that  the  women  have  a  cannon  buried  sumwhar; 
the  lootenant  don't  know  that  the  Arillo  gal  is 
his  fer  the  askin';  the  greasers  don't  know  that 
Vanuela  is  tryin'  to  whipsaw  them;  an'  none  of 
them  know  that  the  wealth  the  big  world  is 
strivin'  and  dyin'  for,  lies  here  in  this  country 
in  the  dirt  under  their  very  feet." 


CHAPTER  VII 
A  SOLDIER'S  WOOING 

/CAREFULLY  do  the  men  of  Spanish  stock 
^-x  guard  their  women,  as  even  now  in  southern 
lands.  The  large  measure  of  individual  freedom 
and  personal  responsibility  which  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  accords  to  his  sisters  and  daughters  is 
utterly  unknown  in  the  lands  where  the  sonorous 
Castilian  is  spoken.  From  her  earliest  childhood 
to  the  day  she  goes  to  the  arms  of  her  husband 
the  Spanish  girl  is  reared  in  the  thought  that 
she  is  not  considered  fully  capable  of  guarding 
herself,  but  that  her  virtue,  her  reputation,  as 
well  as  her  ultimate  fate,  are  in  the  ever-watchful 
care  of  relatives. 

To  sit  alone  with  a  man,  to  walk  with  him 
even  in  public  places,  would  be  intolerable  and 
unwomanly  boldness.  It  would  be  inexcusable 
ignorance  of  the  proprieties  on  the  part  of  the 
relatives  who  permitted  it.  Perhaps  something 
of  the  spirit  of  the  Moor,  with  his  carefully  guarded 
harem,  or  perhaps  the  passionate  ardor  of  a 
hot-blooded  southern  race,  is  responsible  for  the 
institutions  of  the  iron-barred  door  and  window, 
and  the  ever-watchful  duenna,  a  personage  of 
whom  the  modern  chaperon  is  but  a  weak  and 
faint  reflection. 

81 


8a  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

But  love  laughs  at  barred  windows  and  duennas, 
as  it  is  said  to  laugh  at  locksmiths.  On  the 
street,  at  church,  even  while  under  the  care  of 
aunt  or  mother,  the  meeting  eyes  of  man  and 
maid  tell  the  story  that  may  not  be  told  by 
the  tongue — a  long,  devouring  gaze,  that  only  the 
Spanish  woman  knows  how  to  send,  carries  the 
message  her  lips  may  not  utter.  And  so  it  is 
but  little  of  a  surprise  to  her  when,  glancing 
from  her  window,  she  sees,  standing  hour  after 
hour  perhaps,  the  man  to  whom  she  has  already 
paid  the  tribute  of  her  eyes.  To  this  day  in 
Spanish-speaking  countries  the  spectacle  of  a 
man  standing  silent,  staring  up  at  a  window,  is 
too  common  to  attract  more  than  passing  atten 
tion.  Nor  is  it  treated  by  the  passers-by  with 
the  heartless  raillery  of  the  Anglo-Saxon,  but 
with  the  courteous  consideration  that  is  char 
acteristic  of  the  race.  If  it  be  night,  he  sings  to 
attract  her  attention,  and  she  steals  to  the  iron 
bars,  and  there,  with  the  metal  grill  between 
their  throbbing  hearts,  they  tell  to  one  another 
the  glad  sweet  things  that  have  flowed  from 
the  lips  of  lovers  since  ever  love  began. 

Not  hastily,  for  that  would  betoken  the  lack 
of  a  proper  sense  of  their  own  worth  and  dignity, 
do  the  parents  deign  to  take  official  notice  of  the 
courtship.  When  at  last  the  anxious  lover  is 
invited  by  father  and  mother  to  enter  the  house 


A   SOLDIER'S  WOOING  83 

it  is  safe  to  say  that  they  are  well  advised  as  to  his 
family,  his  character,  and  his  prospects.  But 
of  that  knowledge  the  parents  give  no  sign  until 
the  lover  makes  a  formal  demand  for  the 
daughter's  hand.  He  is  met  either  with  a  firm 
but  kindly  refusal,  or  with  an  equally  courteous 
consent.  But  the  approval  of  the  parents  does 
not  mean  any  relaxation  of  the  careful  guardian 
ship  by  mother  or  aunt.  There  are  few  tete-a- 
t6tes  or  opportunities  for  fond  caresses,  but, 
as  before,  the  dark  eyes  speak  with  a  passionate 
tenderness  that  the  cold  blue  eyes  of  the  north 
can  never  know. 

Of  much  of  this  John  Carroll  was  aware. 
Aware  too  was  he  of  the  prideful  regard  in  which 
the  man  of  pure  Castilian  blood  holds  the  honor 
of  his  family  name.  For  this  sentiment  the 
lieutenant  had  much  respect.  Himself  the  son 
of  a  retired  naval  officer,  and  a  grandnephew  of 
a  signer  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  his 
was  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  Maryland,  a 
family  that  proudly  traced  its  lineage  to  an 
associate  of  Lord  Baltimore.  On  this  score  he 
had  no  apprehension;  that  he  had  been  invited 
to  the  house  gave  him  courage  and  hope. 

As  he  entered  the  Arillo  home,  Don  Jose 
Antonio's  grave  face  lighted  with  kindly  smiles 
at  the  sight  of  the  young  soldier. 

"My  house  is  yours,  my  house  is  yours,"  he 


84    THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

repeated  with  a  sincerity  that  almost  made 
the  timeworn  expression  of  hospitality  for  once 
believable. 

The  dispatch  of  the  soldiers  urged  Carroll  to 
immediate  action,  and  his  preliminary  words 
were  indeed  very  incidental.  He  had  come  to 
win  a  bride.  Why  delay? 

"Yours  is  a  beautiful  country,  senor,"  he 
declared,  trying  to  imitate  the  prefacing  remarks 
with  which  the  Mexican  always  heralds  some 
important  topic.  "I  have  seen  the  blue  bays 
of  Italy,  and  the  orange  groves  of  Andalusia, 
but  they  cannot  compare  with  your  California. 
I  have  decided  to  remain,  and  when  the  war 
on  the  Rio  Grande  is  over  I  shall  purchase  a 
rancho  and  make  my  home  here." 

"Glad  indeed  am  I  to  hear  it,"  replied  the 
Don,  in  a  tone  so  deliberate  that  he  betrayed  his 
anticipation  of  the  declaration  that  was  to  follow. 
His  hand  halted  midway  in  stroking  his  beard, 
and  he  looked  seriously  into  Carroll's  eyes,  as 
though  he  would  search  and  see  if  his  soul  and 
heart  and  mind  were  true. 

"Don  Jos6  Antonio,"  said  Carroll,  rising  to 
his  feet  to  give  added  impressiveness  to  his 
words,  "I  am  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman,  the  son 
of  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman.  I  come  not  to 
boast  of  myself,  but  to  tell  you  first  that  my 
hands  are  clean  and  my  conscience  clear,  and  that 


A  SOLDIER'S   WOOING  85 

the  name  of  Carroll  has  never  known  stain  on  its 
honor.  My  father  and  my  grandfather  before 
me  bore  arms  for  their  country." 

Don  Jose  Antonio  nodded  gravely. 

Carroll  knew  well  Arillo's  standards,  and  his 
requirements  for  a  son-in-law.  He  had  made 
his  case  in  his  own  behalf,  and  he  made  it  as 
briefly  and  modestly  as  he  could. 

"And  now  I  have  the  honor  to  ask  you  to 
permit  me  to  pay  my  addresses  to  your  daughter, 
that  I  may  ask  her  hand  in  marriage." 

Cool  and  unflinching,  he  looked  into  Arillo's 


eyes. 

"You  are  quick  and  direct,  Senbr,"  he  almost 
complained.  "Then -he,  added,  with  an  indulgent 
shrug,  "It  is  the  Amesican  way. 

"It  is  a  priceless  jewel  you  ask  for,"  he  resumed 
in  his  poetic  fashion.  "And  yet, —  it  must 
come  to  us, —  the  time  when  we  give  our  dearest 
possession  to  a  stranger.  I  will  call  the  senora." 

To  the  mother  Carroll's  style  changed  in  a 
twinkling,  and  in  almost  caressing  tones  he  told 
of  his  love  for  her  daughter.  As  he  talked,  the 
woman's  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  her  feeble 
protest  was  virtually  a  consent.  She  was  a 
woman  who  loved  a  chivalrous  lover. 

"You  will  take  her  away  to  your  own  country?" 
she  said  gloomily. 

"Ah,  no,  senora;  your  land  and  your  daughter 


86    THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

won  my  heart  in  the  same  hour.  I  had  just 
told  Don  Jose  Antonio  that  I  propose  to  make 
California  my  home  when  the  war  is  ended." 

The  senora  was  thinking  fast.     She  blushed. 

"The  children — they  will  be  Catholics?" 

"Assuredly;  I  was  born  in  the  faith." 

Don  Jos6  Antonio  looked  at  her  triumph 
antly. 

"The  saints  be  praised,"  she  said  devoutly, 
"else  this  love  of  yours  had  been  a  calamity." 
She  was  silent  for  a  space,  her  arms  folded,  her 
foot  tapping  incessantly  on  the  rug.  As  she 
gazed  out  the  window  into  the  moonlit  garden, 
her  eyes  again  sought  the  shadowy  clump  of 
rosebushes  in  the  far  corner.  There  was  a 
crafty  look  in  her  full-orbed  glance  as  she  again 
met  Carroll's  gaze. 

"But  if,  when  the  war  in  Mexico  is  over, —  if 
your  army  is  driven  back  into  Texas, —  if  your 
flag  goes  down  and  California  still  remains  a 
part  of  Mexico  and  you  are  called  away — senor, 
I  fear  it  would  then  be  impossible." 

Carroll  smiled  at  the  supposition. 

"Nothing  can  come  between  us."  He  spoke 
firmly,  and  the  mother's  eyes  brightened  with 
admiration  at  the  declaration  of  constancy. 
"Army  regulations  would  permit  me  to  withdraw 
from  the  service  and,  as  I  said  before,  this  land 
shall  be  my  home." 


A  SOLDIER'S  WOOING  87 

The  mother's  eyes  softened,  and  her  tone 
betrayed  her  final  capitulation. 

"Loreto,"  she  called. 

Loreto  Arillo  entered  slowly.  Not  the  pouting, 
dimpled,  laughing,  care-free  girl  of  the  casement; 
not  the  bewitching,  elfin  creature  who  had  clung 
to  him  far  beyond  the  necessity  of  fear,  a  few 
nights  ago,  but  a  woman,  magnificent,  queenly, 
and  serious  with  all  the  dignity  of  her  race. 

To-night  she  showed  Lieutenant  Carroll  that 
the  daughter  of  the  Arillos  did  not  depend  on 
smiles  or  glances  for  her  beauty.  To-night  she 
gave  him  proof  that  she  was  qualified  by  every 
grace  to  be  the  wife  of  an  American  officer. 
Hers  were  more  than  girlish  fascinations.  Her 
beauty  was  lustrous,  almost  Egyptian.  There 
was  not  the  suspicion  of  a  smile  on  her  lips  as 
she  advanced  with  the  grace  of  a  queen,  and 
extended  her  hand  that  he  might  kiss  it. 

Marveling,  he  gazed  at  the  woman  who  was  to 
be  his  wife;  enraptured  by  the  metamorphosis, 
he  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  with  almost  religious 
reverence.  One  moment  she  looked  into  his 
eyes,  long  and  wistfully. 

"Had  you  not  come,"  she  whispered,  "my 
heart  would  have  broken." 

Her  words,  the  touch  of  her  hands,  the  look 
in  her  velvety  eyes,  again  sent  the  wild  gallopers 
loose  in  the  veins  of  John  Carroll.  Hardly 


88  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

could  he  restrain  himself  from  gathering  her  in 
his  arms  and  raining  kisses  on  her  upturned 
face.  But  the  calm  eyes  of  the  senora  were 
upon  them;  the  unwritten  law  of  the  land  and 
the  people  forbade.  His  charmed  brain  was 
telling  him  one  overweening  fact.  In  any  land, 
in  any  company,  among  any  rank  or  fashion  or 
condition  of  society,  here  was  a  woman  of  whom 
he  would  ever  be  proud.  No  child-wife  would 
she  be ;  no  capricious  miss  to  be  humored,  caressed, 
or  scolded.  No,  to-night  she  was  the  woman 
glorious,  dignifying  his  suit  with  a  seriousness 
merited  by  a  love  like  his. 

As  they  chatted  together  with  the  strange, 
newborn  familiarity  of  love,  all  her  hauteur 
vanished,  and  she  was  once  again  the  witching 
maiden  of  his  first  impression.  Her  eyes  wide 
with  wondering  worshipfulness,  she  listened  to 
his  tales  of  a  soldier's  life  by  land  and  sea.  In 
silent  enthrallment  he  watched  her  baby-like 
fingers  flashing  across  the  harp  strings  as  she 
sang  to  him, —  old  melodies  first  sung  by  some 
forgotten  troubadour  in  the  dim  centuries  of 
the  past  among  the  far-off  hills  of  Aragon. 

As  Don  Jos6  Antonio  looked  upon  them,  he 
sighed  softly.  Yet  as  his  slow  glance  dwelt 
approvingly  upon  the  virile  lines  of  the  soldier's 
well-knit  frame,  at  his  handsome  face  all  aglow 
with  new-found  happiness,  he  smiled  with  satisfied 


A  SOLDIER'S  WOOING  89 

pride.  Such  a  son  would  be  no  discredit  to 
the  house  of  Arillo. 

To  Carroll  it  seemed  that  he  had  never  known 
before  that  such  a  woman  existed.  Intoxicated 
with  her  charm,  doubting  almost  that  he  was 
awake,  marveling  at  the  suddenness  and  complete 
ness  of  her  capitulation,  he  felt  a  contemptuous 
sorrow  for  kings,  for  heroes,  for  the  ancient 
gods,  for  all  the  world.  How  could  the  sphere 
roll  on  through  space,  how  could  any  man  live 
and  be  content,  while  another  possessed  Loreto 
Arillo?  So  sped  the  moments,  every  second 
electrified  with  love. 

The  lieutenant  walked  homeward  with  the 
mien  of  a  man  who  had  drunk  deep  of  century- 
old  wine.  Had  the  stars  been  crystals  beneath 
his  feet,  he  would  have  crunched  them  without 
heed.  Every  particle  of  blood  in  his  body  was 
coursing  madly  through  his  veins,  heralding  to 
every  fiber,  imparting  to  every  molecule  of  his 
being,  the  thrill  which  came  with  thoughts  of 
Loreto  Arillo.  He  was  within  the  shadow  of 
the  old  bull  ring  before  he  thought  of  her  half- 
jocular  warning,  "Beware  the  Black  Matador." 

He  laughed  aloud  in  his  happiness.  He  would 
shake  hands  with  the  devil  himself  to-night. 
Human  or  supernatural  were  all  alike  to  him. 
He  was  gay  as  a  drunkard.  He  started  to  whistle, 
"Oh,  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved."  Then 


90  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

he  stopped.  It  seemed  that  a  form  was  rising 
out  of  the  ground,  in  a  shadowy  corner  not  twenty 
feet  away.  He  heard  the  clicking  of  coin  and 
scraping  of  earth,  as  though  something  was 
being  buried  when  his  whistle  interrupted  opera 
tions.  He  stopped  and  gazed;  the  figure  rose 
to  full  stature. 

"Who  goes  there?"  he  demanded. 

"A  friend — let  me  pass,"  said  a  voice,  evidently 
disguised. 

Carroll  blocked  the  way;  the  voice  was  not 
a  strange  one.  A  menacing  arm  was  raised 
as  though  to  frighten  the  lieutenant;  a  cloak  was 
drawn  across  the  face  as  Loreto  had  described 
the  specter. 

"Halt,  or  I  shoot,"  commanded  Carroll,  who 
though  unarmed  had  the  soldier's  instinct. 

"The  devil  you  will,"  replied  the  figure,  dropping 
the  cloak,  and  Jim  Marshall  stood  before  him. 

"Congratulations,  lieutenant,"  he  chuckled. 

In  puzzled  amazement  the  officer  stared  at  the 
frontiersman's  black  raiment,  at  the  short  cloak 
hanging  from  his  arm,  at  the  round  knobbed  hat 
of  the  bull  fighter. 

"Jim,"  he  protested,  "what  can  you  possibly 
mean  by  such  foolishness?  It  is  dangerous. 
The  provost  guard  may  fire  on  you." 

"Oh,  I  guess  not,"  drawled  Marshall,  as  he 
walked  away. 


A  SOLDIER'S  WOOING  91 

"Good  night,  lieutenant,"  he  called  back 
jocularly.  "What  people  don't  understand 
should  n't  ever  bother  them  none.  A  still  tongue, 
too,  makes  no  trouble  between  friends.  Go 
'long,  now." 

For  a  moment  Carroll  stood  gazing  wonderingly 
in  the  direction  in  which  Marshall  had  disappeared. 
The  frontiersman  and  his  ways  were  beyond 
understanding. 

Then,  as  he  resumed  his  way  to  the  stockade, 
he  forgot  the  man  and  his  masquerading.  His 
soul  filled  with  the  joy  of  life  and  love,  he  went 
to  his  cot  to  dream  of  his  bride  to  be. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"COMO   TE   AMD,    AMAME " 

OILENCE  and  darkness  had  fallen  on  the 
^  house  of  Arillo. 

Alone  in  her  room  sat  Loreto,  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her  head,  a  happy  smile  on  her  curving 
red  lips.  Carroll's  deep  manly  tones,  his  quaint 
little  touches  of  accent,  his  large  white  hands 
that  could  strike  such  mighty  blows,  were  all 
her  thoughts. 

"Ah,  what  a  man  he  is,"  she  whispered  caress 
ingly  to  herself. 

Through  the  barred  window  came  the  tinkling 
melody  of  a  guitar;  then  a  rich,  clear  voice  sang: 

"So  still  and  calm  the  night  is, 

The  very  wind 's  asleep; 
Thy  heart 's  so  tender  sentinel, 

His  watch  and  ward  doth  keep, 
And  on  the  wings  of  zephyrs  soft 

That  wander  how  they  will, 
To  thee,  oh,  woman  fair,  to  thee, 

My  prayers  go  fluttering  still. 
To  thee,  oh,  lady  fair,  to  thee, 

My  prayers  go  fluttering  still. 

"Oh,  take  the  heart's  love  to  thy  heart 

Of  one  that  doth  adore, 
Have  pity — add  not  to  the  flame 

That  burns  thy  troubadour, 
And  if  compassion  stir  thy  breast 

For  my  eternal  woe, 

92 


"COMO  TE  AMO,  AMAME"          93 

Oh,  as  I  love  thee,  loveliest 

Of  women,  love  me  so. 
Oh,  as  I  love  thee,  loveliest 

Of  women,  love  me  so."1 

Could  it  be  her  American? — but  no,  it  was 
not  his  voice.  As  she  grasped  the  bars  with 
both  hands,  and  peered  out  into  the  night,  a 
young  man  stepped  close  to  the  window,  a  look 
of  glad  expectancy  on  his  dreamy,  mobile  face. 

A  little  ripple  of  laughter  greeted  him.  "Why, 
Servolo, — Servolo  Palera,  is  it  thou?  What 
does—" 

"Loreto  mine,  I  have  always  loved  thee,  since 
thou  wert  a  little,  little  girl." 

"But  Servolo,"  she  protested,  "how  foolish, 
how  utterly  foolish — thou  singing  at  my  window, 
when  every  day  thou  art  in  our  house  with 
Jose  and  Manuel,  like  a  brother." 

"Could  I  speak  of  love  with  others  ever  near? 
And  I  am  not  thy  brother,  thanks  be  to  heaven, 
Loreto.  The  love  of  a  man,  the  love  I  have  for 
thee,  is  not  foolish,"  he  said  with  dignity,  as 
he  took  her  hand  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"Always,  always,  hast  thou  been  to  me  the 
light  of  my  life,  the  joy  of  my  heart.  And  it 
would  kill  me,  Loreto,  if  thou  couldst  not  love 
me." 

Little  she  knew  how  truly  he  spoke. 

111  La  noche  esta  serena,"  by  the  kind  permission  of  the 
translator,  Mr.  Chas.  F.  Lummis. 


94  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"But,  Servolo,"  she  said,  amazement  still 
strong  upon  her,  "I  never  thought — I  never 
dreamed —  I  do  love  thee.  Thou  art  very 
dear  to  me,  even  as  Jose  and  Manuel  are." 

"No,  no,"  he  protested,  and  there  was  a 
world  of  pain  in  his  tone,  "I  love  thee  as  a  man 
loves  the  woman  he  would  wed." 

"Oh,  Servolo,  I  am  so  sorry — so  sorry  for 
thee.  It  seems  so  strange — "  The  tears 
trembled  on  her  dark  lashes.  "But  it  can  never, 
never  be." 

"Has  some  one  else  been  singing  at  thy  win 
dow?"  he  asked,  a  new  note  of  fierceness  in 
his  voice. 

"No,  Servolo,  no.  It  is  not  the  American  way 
to — "  She  checked  herself,  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands.  "I  had  not  intended  to 
tell." 

"An  American,  Jesus  Maria!  An  American!" 
he  repeated  incredulously.  "And  they  so  rough 
and  wild, —  men  who  drink  much  wine,  shout 
and  fight,  and  lie  like  dogs  in  the  open  street. 
Oh,  Loreto!" 

"All  Americans  are  not  like  that;  Don  Benito 
Willard  and  Don  Abel  Stearns  are  good  men, 
and  Sefior  Carroll  is  an  officer  and  a  gentleman, 
and  also — thanks  be  to  the  Holy  Mother — a 
Catholic." 

"An  officer — a  gentleman — and  a  Catholic," 


"COMO  TE  AMO,  AMAME"          95 

he  repeated  hopelessly.  His  hands  were  clasped 
far  apart  on  one  of  the  cross  bars,  and  as  his 
head  drooped  between  them  he  wept  bitterly. 

"Sangre  de  Cristo!"  he  exclaimed,  throwing 
up  his  head.  "I  will  kill  him!  He  shall  not 
have  thee!" 

"No,  no,  Servolo!  For  the  love  of  Heaven, 
speak  not  so!  Wouldst  thou  kill  me?  It  would 
kill  me  also,  dost  thou  hear?  For  I  love  him, 
I  love  him  so." 

"Thou  lovest  him,"  he  repeated  incredulously. 

"I  love  him, — more  than  my  family,  more 
than  father  or  mother  or  brothers,  more  than 
all  the  world." 

"Has — has  he  spoken  yet?" 

"He  has,  and  father  and  mocher  have  given 
their  consent — thank  the  saints.  He  will  stay 
in  California  when  the  war  in  Mexico  is  over. 
But,  promise  me,  oh,  promise  me,  Servolo," 
she  pleaded  as  she  reached  through  the  bars  and 
caught  one  of  his  wrists  with  her  little  hands, 
"promise  me  that  thou  wilt  not  harm  him." 

"Have  no  fear,  Loreto.  Since  thou  lovest  him, 
I  love  thee  too  much  to  harm  him,  but  — Jesus ! 
Jesus!"  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and 
his  shoulders  shook  convulsively. 

"Yet  I  still  love  thee,  dear,  truer,  more  deeply 
than  before,"  he  continued  bravely.  "My  heart 
is  dead — the  sun  shines  no  more  for  me — yet 


96  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

I  blame  thee  not.  My  life  I  would  give  for  thee 
gladly,  as  before." 

He  had  recovered  his  composure,  and  his 
handsome  face  bore  evidence  of  the  truth  of  his 
brave,  fervid  words. 

"Still  shall  I  love  thee,  Loreto.  Ever,  if  I 
may,  let  me  serve  thee.  In  these  troublous 
times,  perhaps  I  may  shield  and  defend  thee. 
Thus  may  I  forget  my  grief  until  kind  Death 
releases  me."  Then  lifting  her  fingers  to  his 
lips,  he  strode  away  in  the  darkness. 

And  Loreto  Arillo,  her  tender  heart  aching 
for  the  friend  of  her  childhood,  wept  silently  on 
her  pillow,  till  sleep  fell  upon  her. 


CHAPTER  IX 
"THE  SONS  OF  ANCIENT  SPAIN" 

last  words  of  the  love  song  died  away, 
and  the  singing  ended  with  a  final  sweep 
on  the  strings  of  the  guitar.  Pleased  at  the 
applause,  ready  and  generous,  the  singer  smiled 
happily,  and  handed  the  instrument  to  the 
young  man  across  the  table. 

"It  is  now  for  thee,  Servolo — pardon  me, 
governor.  Something  of  thine  own." 

Servolo  smiled,  showing  his  strong  white  teeth 
under  the  little  curled  mustache.  Cast  in  a 
slender  mold,  light-limbed  and  graceful,  his 
heavy,  bushy  black  hair  in  many  a  wavy  fold 
framed  the  broad  low  brow  of  the  dreaming 
idealist.  Yet  there  was  something  of  strength 
in  the  long  sweep  of  the  pointed  jaw,  and  one 
could  easily  imagine  that  the  soft  eyes  could  snap 
in  anger.  Just  at  present  they  were  heavy  with 
ill-concealed  sorrow;  Palera  had  a  weight  on 
his  heart. 

As  his  fingers  wandered  aimlessly  over  the 
strings,  he  gazed  around  at  the  dozen  young  men 
in  the  low-roofed  room,  at  the  undulating  candle 
flames,  and  the  closed  and  shuttered  windows. 

"Look  without  the  door,  commandant,"  he 
said  to  Ignacio  Reyes. 

97 


98  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

He  hummed  a  slow  strain,  his  fingers  ever 
searching,  seeking  on  the  strings  for  something 
that  eluded  them.  Then  the  notes  repeated, 
wavered,  and  rose  again,  till  the  twinkling  fingers 
found  themselves,  and  as  Reyes  reentered  with 
the  words,  "All  is  well,"  the  music  floated  into 
a  low,  plaintive  melody  of  the  minor  chord.  A 
moment  only  it  surged  on  alone,  then  his  clear 
tenor  voice  broke  forth  in  song. 

"The  stranger  rules  our  fathers'  land, 

Our  flag  in  dust  is  lain; 
Our  heads  we  bow  to  his  command, 

We  Sons  of  Ancient  Spain. 
Our  pulses  thrill  to  the  wondrous  tale 

Of  their  deeds  in  days  of  old. 
Oh!  can  it  be  our  cheeks  grow  pale, 

Our  hearts  grow  weak  and  cold? 

"The  race  whose  bold  and  hardy  sons, 

First  Ocean's  wastes  essayed, 
The  Cross  of  Christ  to  the  heathen  brought. 

In  the  dusky  forest  glade. 
Our  pulses  thrill  to  the  wondrous  tale 

Of  their  deeds  in  the  days  of  old, 
Oh,  can  it  be  our  cheeks  grow  pale. 

Our  hearts  grow  weak  and  cold?  " 

As  the  grieving,  plaintive  melody  died  away  his 
quick  eyes  again  sought  the  faces  of  his  compan 
ions,  with  a  gratified  smile. 

In  all  ages  it  has  been  men  with  the  brow  and 
the  eyes  of  Servolo  Palera  who  have  sung  the 
songs  that  have  echoed  in  the  hearts  of  men  — 


"THE  SONS  OF  ANCIENT  SPAIN"     99 

songs  that  have  sent  them  from  their  quiet  fire 
sides,  from  the  arms  of  their  wives  and  the  kisses 
of  their  children,  to  face  death  on  distant  for 
eign  fields. 

His  was  the  soul  of  the  ancient  bard,  and  his 
handsome  face  glowed  with  gladness  as  he  noted 
their  clouded  countenances,  their  heads  bowed, 
and  the  tears  trembling  on  their  lashes.  Their 
unspoken  thoughts,  the  thoughts  that  with  brave 
fronts  they  had  sought  to  cover  with  airy  badi 
nage  and  assumed  indifference,  he  had  rudely 
dragged  to  the  glaring  light  of  day.  The  silence, 
broken  by  an  occasional  sigh,  was  more  eloquent 
than  any  applause. 

"Be  not  downcast,  my  children.  Your  beloved 
governor  would  not  see  you  sad.  Listen." 

The  plucking  fingers  galloped  into  a  quick, 
joyous  lilt,  rose  into  a  triumphant  strain,  and 
again  he  sang. 

"The  tide  that  flowed  in  CorteV  veins, 

The  blood  of  conquering  Spain, 
The  race  that  won  these  hills  and  plains, 

Shall  conquer  once  again. 
Within  our  heart  the  hope  is  strong, 

The  hope  that  cannot  die — 
That  right  shall  triumph  over  wrong 

Beneath  our  southern  sky. 

"When  the  hills  are  soft  with  creeping  green, 

And  the  mustard  blooms  again, 
The  sun  shall  see  their  banners  gleam, 
The  Sons  of  Ancient  Spain. 


ioo  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Within  our  hearts  the  hope  is  strong, 

The  hope  that  never  dies, 
That  right  shall  triumph  over  wrong, 

Beneath  our  southern  skies." 

There  was  a  moment  of  tense  silence;  then 
a  delirious  roar  of  applause.  Around  him  they 
pressed,  with  outstretched  hands,  embracing  him, 
and  patting  him  on  the  back.  Ignacio,  with  a 
burst  of  Latin  fervidness,  bent  over  and  pressed 
his  lips  to  his  waving  locks. 

"Ah,  Servolo,  dear  friend  of  mine,  thou  art  a 
true  singer.  Thou  playest  on  our  hearts  as  easily 
as  on  thy  guitar." 

A  knock  on  the  door  caused  immediate  silence. 

"The  Americans!"  ran  the  whisper  around  the 
room. 

There  was  a  hurried  rush  for  the  back  entrance, 
but  Palera,  reaching  the  door  first,  set  his  back 
against  it  and,  raising  his  hand,  held  them  back. 

"Stop!  If  it  be  the  Americans,  the  house  is 
surrounded,  and  there  is  no  escape.  Would  you 
have  a  bullet  in  the  back  as  you  run  away  in  the 
darkness?  But  if  it  is  a  friend,  well — we  will 
sing  for  him  and  give  him  some  wine." 

He  unbarred  the  front  door,  and  Hugo  Vanuela 
stepped  inside. 

"Let  me  not  disturb  you,  my  friends,"  he  said 
in  his  deep  voice.  "Ah,  wine  and  song — both 
are  good.  But  do  you  not  fear  the  Americans 
will  discover  your  retreat?" 


"THE  SONS  OF  ANCIENT  SPAIN"  101 

"No,"  answered  Ignacio;  "it  is  far  down  here 
by  the  river.  The  nose  of  the  man  Gillie  is  long 
and  sharp  as  that  of  a  coyote,  but  he  has  not  yet 
smelled  out  our  burrow.  But,  Senor  Vanuela, 
why  is  it  thou  hast  not  been  with  us  since  the 
night  we  first  met?" 

Vanuela  was  not  especially  welcome  to  many 
of  the  young  men,  but  their  infinite  courtesy  forced 
them  to  a  show  of  hospitality. 

"Ah,  that  is  so,  but  one  cannot  be  where  one 
will.  There  is  much  to  do  at  the  rancho.  Then, 
I  do  not  love  the  pueblo — at  present,"  he  added 
with  a  wry  face. 

"Still,  there  are  things  that  amuse,"  suggested 
Servolo.  "The  saints  be  thanked  for  that! 
Pablo,  it  is  truly  a  shame  the  way  that  thou 
plaguest  the  sentry  at  the  stockade  gate — pepper 
ing  him  with  small  stones  in  the  darkness,  from 
the  near-by  roofs.  Some  night  he  will  bring  thee 
tumbling  down  with  a  shot  from  his  carbine." 

"Not  so,"  answered  Pablo,  "for  he  can  never 
tell  the  direction  from  which  they  come,  as  there 
are  always  more  than  one  of  us  on  different  roofs. 
But  thou,  Ignacio,  thou  wilt  be  caught  some  day — 
calling  him  'Pig,  pig,'  even  from  the  doors  across 
the  street,  in  the  broad  light  of  day." 

Ignacio's  wholesome,  boyish  grin  testified  to  his 
guilt. 

"Ah,    governor,"   he   bantered,    "thou   needst 


THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

not  assume  airs  of  virtue.  Who  was  it  threw  the 
bleeding  head  of  a  pig  on  the  end  of  a  swinging 
riata  over  the  stockade  wall,  and  brought  the 
worthy  Gillie  himself  storming  from  his  bed?  A 
reward  has  been  posted  for  the  capture  of  the 
evil  doer.  Santa  Maria!  I  am  half-minded  to 
collect  it  myself." 

Hugo  smiled  as  the  hearty  laughter  ran  around 
the  room.  Within  the  past  week  he  had  been 
busy  buying  a  welcome  with  MacNamara's  gold. 

"Let  more  wine  be  brought.  It  is  for  me  to 
pay,"  he  added,  as  he  laid  several  gold  pieces  on 
the  table.  "  Let  it  be  a  cask. ' ' 

"Now,  Senor  Vanuela,"  said  Reyes,  after  the 
glasses  had  been  emptied,  "you  shall  hear  our 
poet's  latest  effort.  Sing  for  us  again,  Servolo, 
thy  new  song,  'The  Sons  of  Ancient  Spain.'  ' 

As  Palera  sang,  his  fine  face  flushed  with  wine, 
the  young  men  threw  off  all  restraint,  and  swung 
into  the  chorus  at  the  tops  of  their  voices. 

"Within  our  hearts  the  hope  is  strong, 

The  hope  that  never  dies, 
That  right  shall  triumph  over  wrong, 
Beneath  our  southern  skies." 

"  'Tis  a  grand  song,  Seftor  Palera,"  Vanuela 
said  gravely.  "Allow  me  to  congratulate  you. 
'T would  go  well,"  he  added,  "to  the  sound  of 
marching  feet." 

Again  were  the  glasses  filled  and  emptied,  and 


"THE  SONS  OF  ANCIENT  SPAIN"  103 

again  with  waving  hands  and  stamping  feet  they 
roared  through  the  chorus,  till  the  tinkling  of  the 
guitar  was  lost  in  the  tumult. 

Vanuela  rose  to  his  feet.  "Friends,"  he  said, 
raising  his  glass  aloft,  "to-day  is  the  day  of  all 
days — the  night  of  all  nights.  Have  you  for 
gotten  that  it  is  the  sixteenth  of  September,  the 
day  of  Mexico's  independence?  Shall  it  pass 
without  our  showing  the  Americans,  though  con 
quered  we  may  be,  we  have  not  forgotten  and 
never  will  forget?" 

Loud  handclapping,  and  shouts  of  "No,  no!" 
greeted  him. 

"Let  us  then  go  in  the  darkness  and  sing  in 
the  ears  of  our  friend  Gillie  the  wonderful  song 
of  our  poet,  that  he  may  know  we  have  not  for 
gotten  and  that  hope  does  indeed  live  within  our 
hearts.  'Twill  be  rare  sport  to  bring  him  and 
his  men  tumbling  from  their  beds,  but  to  gaze 
upon  an  empty  street." 

"But  hold,"  said  Palera;  "they  may  fire  upon 
us.  The  man  Gillie  has  been  much  annoyed  of 
late." 

"Bah!  In  the  darkness  we  are  safe.  The 
Americans  shoot  well,  but  in  the  night,  and  when 
greatly  excited,  the  devil  himself  could  not  shoot 
straight.  However,  if  thou  art  afraid — " 

Servolo's  eyes  snapped  indignantly.  "I  will 
go,"  he  said  quietly. 


io4  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"And  noise,  noise,"  broke  in  a  voice.  "We 
must  have  plenty  of  it;  there  is  an  old  drum  in 
the  back  room,  I  believe." 

"There  is.  It  needs  only  tightening,"  said 
Ignacio,  as  he  hastened  to  get  it. 

"Wait,"  said  Pablo.  "I  will  get  father's  old 
escopeta.  It  is  but  a  few  steps  across  the  vine 
yard.  There  is  a  charge  of  powder  in  it  already." 

Silently,  and  with  infinite  caution,  the  little 
line  of  dark  figures  trailed  across  the  vineyards 
and  wound  through  cornfields,  stopping  here  and 
there  at  a  warning  signal  from  Vanuela.  Reaching 
the  main  road  leading  from  the  river  to  the  houses 
thickly  grouped  about  the  plaza,  they  lay  flat  on 
their  faces  in  an  olive  grove  while  an  American 
patrol  trotted  past. 

"Tie  up  that  drum  a  little  tighter,  Ignacio.  It 
clanks  and  is  noisy,"  whispered  Servolo. 

There  was  no  moon,  and  the  sky,  overcast  with 
a  blanket  of  clouds,  showed  not  a  single  solitary 
star.  Through  the  inky  reek  of  the  night  they 
crept  past  houses  where  dogs  barked  inquiringly. 
As  they  stole  across  the  street  toward  the  stockade 
gate  Vanuela  lagged  behind  and,  slipping  to  the 
rear  of  one  of  the  buildings,  was  lost  in  the  dark 
ness.  In  the  intense  excitement  of  the  moment 
his  absence  was  unnoticed.  Suddenly  the  hush 
of  night  was  broken  by  loud  yells,  the  rattle  of  a 
drum,  and  a  single  shot. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    CLANK   OF   CHAINS 

A  S  Captain  Gillie  paced  up  and  down  the 
^*-  veranda  in  the  darkness,  he  swung  his  hands 
together  in  a  gesture  of  exasperation.  From  the 
guardhouse,  across  the  stockade,  half  seen  in 
the  light  of  the  flaring  torch,  came  the  bellowing 
roar  of  drunken  men,  cursing  and  singing.  It  was 
close  to  midnight,  and  only  an  hour  ago  more 
than  a  dozen  of  them  had  been  herded  into  the 
stockade,  by  a  guard  of  marines — fighting  and 
struggling  even  to  the  guardhouse  door.  The 
frontiersmen  were  greater  disturbers  of  the  cap 
tain's  peace  of  mind  than  even  the  Calif ornians. 
Then,  too,  Vanuela  had  called  on  the  captain 
during  the  afternoon,  and  warned  him  of  a  possible 
assault  on  the  stockade  about  midnight.  He  had 
given  him  a  list  of  the  men  who,  he  said,  had 
secretly  instigated  the  coming  attack.  Gillie 
only  half  believed  him.  An  inspection  of  the  list 
showed  him  that  almost  all  the  names  were  those 
of  men  whose  paroles  were  locked  in  his  desk. 
But  the  captain  had  been  sorely  tried  in  the  last 
few  days,  and  in  his  shaken  condition  the  thought 
of  Vanuela's  warnings  began  to  grow  upon  him. 
"Pshaw,  the  fellow  is  lying,"  he  assured 

105 


io6  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

himself.  "Those  men  are  not  going  to  break  their 
paroles." 

The  imprisoned  men  in  the  guardhouse  had 
quieted  down,  and  to  his  ears  came  only  muttered 
grumblings  and  the  sound  of  long-drawn  snores. 
At  the  gate  the  crunch,  crunch,  of  the  sentry's 
footsteps  was  broken  only  by  the  short  stop  where 
he  turned  to  retrace  his  beat. 

Suddenly,  by  the  east  gate,  the  blackness  of 
the  night  was  filled  with  a  tumultuous  clamor,  — 
the  rush  of  many  feet  and  the  quick,  regular 
throbbing  of  a  drum.  Above  it  all  rose  the 
sound  of  singing,  fierce  and  triumphant. 

"The  sun  shall  see  their  banners  gleam, 
The  Sons  of  Ancient  Spain." 

Stones  rattled  on  the  gate  and  hurtled  in  the 
darkness  over  the  low  wall;  the  drum  tattoed  a 
wild  fanfare,  and  the  crimson  streak  of  a  gunshot 
cleft  the  darkness.  In  quick  response  the  carbine 
of  the  sentry  at  the  gate  barked  out  toward  the 
sound  of  the  tumult. 

"To  arms!  To  arms!" 

The  wild  cry  echoed  through  the  stockade, 
and  in  a  moment  it  was  filled  with  men,  half 
dressed  and  hatless,  their  guns  in  their  hands, 
their  eyes  wide  and  wondering.  Some  one  threw 
open  the  guardhouse  door,  and  the  prisoners, 
strangely  sober  now,  took  their  places  at  the 
walls.  In  a  moment,  above  gate  and  wall  alike, 


THE   CLANK  OF  CHAINS  107 

musket  barrels  protruded.  In  silence  they 
waited,  glaring  into  the  darkness  for  the  glimmer 
of  a  moving  figure.  Far  away,  from  down  by 
the  river,  a  rooster  crowed,  as  though  in  mockery. 
A  marine  next  to  Carroll  on  the  west  wall  giggled, 
a  giggle  that  quickly  convulsed  the  armed  men 
in  the  darkness. 

The  captain's  face,  in  the  wavering  light  of 
the  torches,  grew  ashen,  not  with  fear  but  with 
rage  and  mortification.  His  own  men  were 
laughing  at  him!  Strung  to  a  nervous  tension  as 
he  had  been  for  the  last  two  weeks,  the  exciting 
events  of  the  night  made  him  utterly  desperate. 
In  the  wild  tumult  of  his  tired  brain  he  lost  all 
sense  of  the  relative  proportion  of  things.  His 
teeth  came  together  with  a  snap;  he  tried  to 
speak,  but  from  his  dry  lips  there  came  no  sound. 

He  thought  of  Vanuela  and  his  repeated 
warnings;  of  the  list  of  names  in  his  pocket.  He 
was  indeed  being  made  a  fool  of  by  the  men  who 
had  signed  the  paroles.  He  called  Carroll  from 
the  wall. 

"Lieutenant  Carroll,"  he  said,  as  he  came 
down  the  steps,  "you  will  take  a  detail  of  ten 
men,  and  arrest  and  bring  here  the  men  whose 
names  are  on  this  list." 

Carroll  held  the  paper  to  the  light  of  the  flaring 
oil  torch. 

"Arillo,"  he  gasped,  as  the  written  words  sprang 


io8  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

up  before  him.  "Pardon  me,  captain;  this  is 
folly.  That  man  is  devoted  to  our  interests.  I 
saw  him  in  his  own  house  not  an  hour  ago." 

"Lieutenant  Carroll,  you  will  arrest  those  men 
at  once.  Not  only  that,  but  you  will  accept  no 
paroles  not  to  attempt  to  escape.  Forestall  any 
attempt  at  rescue, —  shackle  each  and  every  one 
of  them  securely,  before  bringing  them  here." 

A  moment  later  a  marine  threw  the  chains 
clanking  at  Carroll's  feet.  On  the  lieutenant's 
brow  the  beads  of  cold  sweat  glittered  in  the 
torchlight.  With  an  impulsive  gesture  he  drew 
his  sword,  the  wild  idea  of  breaking  it  across  his 
knee,  of  tearing  off  his  shoulder  straps,  and 
casting  them  all  at  Gillie's  feet,  sweeping  through 
his  mind.  With  the  hilt  in  one  hand,  the  other 
grasping  the  naked  blade,  he  stood  for  a  fleeting 
instant,  gazing  into  the  captain's  bloodshot 
eyes.  Then  with  stony  face  he  saluted,  slid  the 
sword  into  its  scabbard,  and  turned  away. 

Through  the  dense  darkness  of  the  streets, 
with  the  white  adobes  looming  ghostlike  around 
them  for  a  moment,  then  fading  away  in  the 
universal  blackness,  they  marched.  Lieutenant 
Carroll  pounded  loudly  with  his  sword-hilt  on 
Arillo's  door,  and  Don  Jos6  Antonio  himself 
appeared,  half  clad,  his  eyes  blinking  wonderingly 
at  the  clamor. 

"Senor  Carroll!" 


THE  CLANK  OF  CHAINS  109 

"I  have  orders  to  arrest  you,  Sefior  Arillo." 

"But  why?     It  is  incredible,  my  good  friend." 

"I  do  not  know,  senor." 

There  was  a  dull  pain  in  his  head,  and  to  his 
own  ears  his  own  voice  seemed  strangely  distant 
and  unnatural.  In  the  dim  candle  light  his  face 
was  hard  and  expressionless.  His  men  were 
looking  at  him  wonderingly;  he  could  not 
explain. 

As  the  marine,  with  the  shackles  over  his  arm, 
stepped  inside  the  door,  the  countenance  of  Don 
Jose  Antonio  turned  a  fiery  red,  and  then  white. 
He  staggered  back  as  if  he  had  been  struck  in 
the  face.  With  eyes  darting  flame,  he  sprang 
toward  the  wall,  where  hung  his  sword. 

"Chains  on  me!  Sangre  de  Cristo,  never! 
Sooner  will  I  die  here  beneath  my  own  roof !  Dog 
are  you,  who  serve  a  dog  of  a  master." 

But  he  was  not  quick  enough.  A  stalwart 
young  marine  threw  his  brawny  arms  about  him, 
and  held  him  fast  while  another  bent  to  the  floor 
and  snapped  the  shackles  on  his  ankles. 

Doors  slammed,  and  with  staring  eyes  and 
screams  of  terror,  Senora  Arillo,  Loreto,  Manuel, 
Jose,  and  the  servants  of  the  household  rushed 
into  the  room.  At  the  sight  of  Don  Jose  Antonio, 
his  head  bent,  the  tears  of  anger  and  shame 
trickling  into  his  beard,  the  chains  on  the  floor, 
there  was  a  piercing  wail  of  utter  consternation 
8 


no  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

from  them  all, —  from  all  save  Loreto  and  her 
mother. 

Carroll  held  up  his  hand,  and  his  voice,  hollow  and 
broken,  reached  their  ears  in  an  unavailing  protest. 

"Believe  me,  Senora  Arillo,  it  breaks  my 
heart  to  do  this.  But  a  soldier  must  obey  orders. 
Perhaps  all  will  be  well  to-morrow." 

The  senora  had  been  clinging  to  her  husband, 
her  face  wrenched  in  agony,  her  cheeks  wet  with 
tears.  She  turned  on  Carroll  a  look  of  fierce, 
burning  hatred. 

"You  cur!"  sheened. 

Loreto  stood  near  her,  still  and  white,  her 
hands  crossed  on  her  heaving  bosom,  her  eyes 
wide  in  trance-like  horror. 

To  her,  the  man  reached  his  hands  imploringly. 

"Loreto,  you, —  surely  you  understand?" 

The  black  eyes  stared  blankly  into  his,  and 
from  her  ashen  lips  the  words,  slow  and  distinct, 
cold  and  cruel,  cut  him  like  a  lash: 

"I  pray  God  that  I  may  never  look  upon  your 
face  again." 

With  a  low  moan  she  sank  to  the  floor,  her  face 
buried  in  her  hands. 

Mechanically,  Carroll  gave  the  necessary 
orders, — "Shoulder  arms,  forward,  march!"  and 
Don  Jos6  Antonio  Arillo,  bareheaded,  and  sur 
rounded  by  a  ring  of  pointed  bayonets,  was  led 
away  from  his  weeping  household. 


THE  CLANK  OF   CHAINS  in 

Clank,  clank,  clank,  went  the  chains  at  every 
step  across  the  plaza,  their  metallic  rattle  stabbing 
Carroll  to  the  heart. 

Clank,  clank,  like  a  death  knell  in  their  regular 
ity.  Truly,  truly,  he  thought  bitterly,  it  was  the 
death  knell  of  his  happiness.  Suddenly  there 
flashed  on  his  mind  the  words  of  the  sightless 
crone, — "Friendship  shall  walk  in  chains;  friend 
ship  shall  walk  in  chains.  Thy  heart  shall  be 
crushed  as  by  a  stone." 

Through  the  still  night  he  moved  like  an 
automaton.  It  was  a  night  of  forced  doors,  of 
angrily  protesting  men,  weeping  women,  and 
screaming  children.  Ever  in  his  ears  was  the 
clank  of  the  chains,  and  the  dull  pain  in  his 
breast. 

To  the  stockade  they  brought  them;  not  only 
Arillo,  but  little  Don  Augustin  Alvaro,  Don 
Andreas  Pico,  the  brother  of  the  former  governor, 
with  Don  Jesus  Pico,  his  cousin,  Don  Jose  Maria 
Flores,  Don  Francisco  de  la  Guerra,  Don  Manuel 
Garfias,  Don  Francisco  Rico,  Dons  Leonardo  and 
Francisco  Cota,  Don  Lugo  Yorba,  aged  and 
worn,  and  many  others,  fifteen  in  all,  each  and 
every  one  dragging  the  shameful  felon's  chain. 

All  night  long  the  terror  spread,  for  already 
one  young  soul  had  gone  to  meet  his  God,  and  his 
blood  cried  aloud  to  his  fellow  Californians  for 
vengeance. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    COURIERS    OF   THE   NIGHT 

WHEN  the  answering  shot  of  the  sentry  flashed 
through  the  darkness  that  fateful  midnight, 
one  of  the  rioters  lurched  against  Palera,  a  cling 
ing  hand  caught  his  sleeve,  and  a  familiar  voice 
gasped, 

"Sanguis!    I  am  killed!" 

It  was  Ignacio  Reyes,  shot  through  the  breast, 
and  while  Servolo  and  Pablo,  shocked  by  the 
tragic  end  of  their  frolic,  bore  him  quickly  to  his 
home,  the  others,  ignorant  of  the  tragedy,  had 
scampered  away,  pleased  with  the  escapade. 

Surrounded  by  his  sorrowing  mother  and 
sisters,  within  an  hour  the  boy  was  dead.  As 
Servolo,  shaken  by  sobs,  buried  his  tear-stained 
face  in  the  drapery  of  the  bed,  the  insistent 
thought,  clear  and  agonizing,  saddened  his  soul 
and  burned  in  his  brain — the  thought  that  it  had 
been  his  own  consent  to  the  wild  venture  that  had 
sent  his  friend  Ignacio  to  his  sudden  fate. 

"Ignacio,  Ignacio,"  he  whispered  piteously, 
"forgive  me,  forgive  me!  I  could  not  know — I 
could  not  know."  It  was  to  Servolo  the  second 
tragedy  on  his  heavy  heart. 

Pressing  his  lips  to  the  cold  brow  of  his  dead 
friend,  he  took  leave  of  the  weeping  women  and 

112 


THE  COURIERS  CF  THE  NIGHT    113 

stepped  into  the  still  night.  As  he  did  so,  two 
figures  emerged  from  the  darkness  of  a  neighboring 
veranda,  and  Hugo  Vanuela  asked,  in  his  hoarse 
whisper : 

"Is  the  boy  badly  hurt,  senor?" 

"He  is  dead,"  answered  Servolo,  in  a  breaking 
voice. 

"Dead, —  Jesus  Maria!  So-o-o."  Vanuela 
drew  in  his  breath  with  a  hissing  sound. 

"Listen,  friend  Palera,"  said  the  other  man.  It 
was  MacNamara,  and  he  spoke  in  a  low,  thrilling 
whisper.  "It  is  time  for  women  to  weep,  but  for 
men  to  act.  It  is  for  us  to  rouse  the  pueblo.  Let 
us  strike  back — strike  back  in  such  a  manner 
that  the  world  will  hear  of  it.  Are  you  ready?" 

"But  to  what  end,  Senor  Almagro?" 

For  it  was  as  Don  Pablo  Almagro,  a  Spaniard 
long  resident  in  Mexico,  that  MacNamara  had 
been  passing  among  those  who  knew  him  in  the 
pueblo. 

"To  what  end?  Ah!  you  do  not  know — no 
one  knows  but  our  friend  Vanuela.  You  pledge 
me  your  word  to  keep  the  source  of  your  informa 
tion  to  yourself?" 

Palera  nodded. 

"I  have  secret  news  from  the  south  that  a 
Mexican  army  of  many  thousands  is  preparing 
to  march  north  to  our  assistance." 

Palera  started,  and  glanced  at  Vanuela.     Hugo 


ii4  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

nodded  confirmation,  but  the  darkness  hid  his 
sly  smile  of  admiration  at  the  spy's  bold,  ingenious 
mendacity. 

"We  will  ride,"  went  on  MacNamara,  "to 
every  house  to-night  where  there  is  a  man  and 
a  gun,  and  warn  them  that  the  stockade  will  be 
attacked  before  noon  and  that  the  signal  will 
be  three  shots  from  the  hilltop.  You,  my  good 
Servolo,  shall  fire  the  shots.  Tell  them  of  the 
murder  of  Reyes;  remind  them  that  there  are 
but  fifty  men  in  the  stockade.  I  myself  will 
ride  by  the  river  to  the  south,  you  through  the 
fields  to  the  north,  while  Vanuela  can  rouse  those 
in  town. 

"Ah!  thou  art  not  the  man,"  he  continued  in 
his  caressing  voice,  "to  let  the  blood  of  thy 
friend  and  brother  go  unavenged.  Thou  art  not 
the  man  to  let  pass  this  occasion  to  strike  a 
telling  blow  for  thy  country,  and  win  honor  for 
the  name  of  Palera.  Wilt  thou  ride  with  us? 
Answer  quickly,  senor,  for  time  passes." 

"Santa  Madre,  yes!"  There  was  a  fierce,  glad 
ring  in  Servolo's  voice.  "Senor  Almagro,  I  am 
with  you  now  and  always." 

A  quiet  handclasp,  and  they  were  on  their 
horses,  moving  silently  through  the  night. 

Others  were  abroad  in  the  darkness. 

A  dozen  times  Palera  and  MacNamara  dodged 
Lieutenant  Somers  and  his  patrol,  riding  six 


THE  COURIERS  OF  THE  NIGHT    115 

abreast  down  the  wide  lanes  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
pueblo.  From  behind  the  corner  of  an  adobe, 
Hugo  Vanuela  watched  Carroll  and  his  men  cross 
the  plaza  with  Don  Jose  Antonio,  and  as  the 
clank  of  the  chains  reached  his  ears,  he  muttered, 
"So-o-o,  chains  on  the  proud  Arillo!  It  is  music 
to  my  ears.  Ah,  would  I  could  see  his  face! " 

Short  was  the  message  that  they  carried  to 
sleepy  men  and  terrified  women  during  the  long 
hours  of  that  memorable  night  of  September 
1 6,  1846 — an  army  was  coming  from  Mexico 
— Ignacio  Reyes  had  been  shot  to  death  by  the 
Americans — the  time  had  come  to  fight — there 
were  only  fifty  men  in  the  stockade,  and  it  would 
be  an  easy  task  to  surround  and  capture  them. 
Quietly  were  they  to  gather  on  all  vantage  points, 
and  wait  for  the  three  signal  shots  from  the  hill. 

And  they  did  not  fail.  Calmly  the  men  of  the 
pueblo,  Castilian  and  peon  alike,  kissed  their 
weeping  wives  and  children  farewell  and  crept 
secretly  through  the  night,  their  guns  hidden 
under  the  voluminous  folds  of  their  scrapes. 

When  morning  dawned,  they  were  lying  con 
cealed  on  the  roofs  surrounding  the  stockade, 
and  hidden  behind  the  crumbling  ramparts  on 
the  hilltop,  waiting  impatiently  for  the  signal, — 
the  three  warning  shots  that  would  mean  the 
opening  of  the  struggle  for  the  mastery  of 
California. 


u6  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

The  blunders  of  Captain  Gillie,  the  intrigues 
of  a  British  secret  agent,  and  the  machinations  of 
a  vindictive  half-breed,  were  destined  to  bear 
bloody  fruit. 

The  work  of  Stockton  and  Fremont  had  been 
undone. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WAR 

morning  after  the  midnight  arrests  broke 
-••  cool,  calm,  and  sunless.  Along  the  distant 
foothills  lay  a  long  filmy  line  of  fog,  leaving  the 
serrated  summits  of  the  range  seemingly  suspended 
in  the  air.  Vanished  was  the  noonday  vividness 
of  color,  the  golden  brown  of  the  rolling  swells, 
the  bright  green  of  the  sycamores  by  the  stream, 
the  blue  of  the  winding  river.  All  under  the 
graying  sky  was  softened  and  subdued  to  a 
peaceful,  dreamy  harmony  of  color. 

Through  the  weary  watches  of  the  night 
Captain  Gillie  had  tossed  and  turned  on  his  uneasy 
couch,  harassed  by  torturing  doubts,  a  prey  to 
a  thousand  fears.  His  burst  of  uncontrollable 
fury  had  faded  the  moment  Carroll  and  his  men 
left  the  stockade,  and  the  captain  had  apparently 
become  himself  again,  contained  and  self-sufficient, 
but  as  ever  stubborn  and  unyielding.  But  in 
the  morning  at  roll-call,  the  lieutenant  noted 
his  face,  pale  and  worn,  his  eyes  hollow  and 
weary. 

There  had  been  something  in  the  calm,  frozen- 
eyed  silence  of  the  manacled  men,  who  though 
chained  of  foot  and  girdled  by  glistening  steel 
yet  had  faced  him  the  night  before,  in  the  swaying 

117 


n8  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

flare  of  the  torchlight,  with  heads  held  high  and 
brows  undaunted — a  something  that  had  given 
him  pause,  with  a  sense  of  his  own  indefinable 
smallness.  Dimly  he  must  have  thought,  if 
indeed  he  had  thought  of  it  at  all,  to  have  found 
them  crushed  and  humiliated,  craving  grace  and 
mercy  at  his  hands.  But  he  knew  not  their 
spirit.  Beyond  one  brief  negative, —  a  negative 
which  denied  any  part  or  share  in  the  disturbance 
of  the  night, —  by  no  further  word,  look,  or  sign 
would  they  intimate  a  knowledge  even  of  his  very 
existence.  Don  Jos6  Antonio  had  folded  his 
arms  and  looked  straight  over  the  captain's  head, 
and  Gillie's  repeated  questionings  brought  but  a 
curve  of  contempt  to  his  bearded  lips. 

Far  more  hurriedly  than  was  his  wont,  the 
captain  paced  up  and  down  the  veranda,  his 
fingers  ever  pulling  and  twisting  his  protuberant 
under  lip.  Ever  and  anon  he  paused  and  glanced 
at  the  guardhouse,  that  held  the  prisoners  of 
the  midnight  raid.  He  hurried  halfway  across 
the  stockade,  hesitated  again,  and  with  a  final 
toss  of  his  head,  strode  to  the  door  and  ordered 
them  released. 

Ominously  silent,  they  stood  erect  as  the  marine, 
kneeling  before  them,  clicked  the  key  in  the 
locks  and,  one  by  one,  cast  away  the  chains. 
Very  still  and  very  austere  were  they  as  they 
passed,  one  after  another,  through  the  narrow 


WAR  119 

door,  Arillo  and  Alvaro  supporting  the  half- 
fainting  figure  of  the  aged  Don  Lugo  Yorba. 
They  slowed  their  steps  for  a  brief  moment, 
glancing  at  Gillie  half  expectantly. 

Surely,  surely,  there  would  be  some  word  of 
apology,  of  regret,  of  explanation.  But  with 
one  hand  on  his  sword  hilt,  the  other  tugging  at 
his  lip,  he  stood  wordless,  watching  them  as  they 
went  through  the  big  gate  swung  open  before 
them.  Alas  for  Gillie  that  he  lacked  the  graces 
of  the  old-world  courtesy! 

As  the  captain  turned  away  with  something 
akin  to  a  sigh  of  relief,  a  ringing  sound  caught 
his  ear.  Marshall  was  seated  on  the  sand, 
pounding  at  the  vent  hole  of  one  of  the  spiked 
cannon.  Smiling  at  the  man's  persistence,  Gillie 
walked  away. 

Hour  after  hour  the  metallic  clang  continued. 
The  sun  struggled  through  the  clouds,  driving  the 
morning  mists  from  the  foothills,  licking  up  the 
stray  wisps  of  fog  from  the  valleys,  and  chasing 
the  shortening  shadows  back  toward  the  moun 
tains.  The  sentry  at  the  gate  sought  the  protection 
of  the  veranda  shade,  and  sat  with  his  back  to  the 
steps,  his  head  drooping  in  slumber. 

Suddenly  he  sprang  to  his  feet;  Marshall's 
hammer  remained  poised  in  the  air,  his  head  erect. 
Then  they  both  grabbed  their  carbines  and 
rushed  to  where,  already,  two  frontiersmen  had 


120  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

climbed  the  low  embankment  inside  the  wall, 
and  were  staring  up  the  street  toward  the 
plaza. 

Wave  after  wave  of  cheers  flooded  the  noonday 
air;  not  the  full-throated  roar  of  the  Anglo-Saxon, 
but  the  sharp  yell,  shrill  and  prolonged,  that 
comes  from  Latin  throats. 

"God  a'mighty,"  gasped  Brooks,  "they've 
pulled  down  the  flag!" 

"Yep,"  commented  Marshall,  "  them  greasers '11 
be  startin'  somethin*  in  about  two  minutes." 

He  was  picking  his  flint  and  looking  to  his 
cartridge  box  as  he  spoke. 

"Cracky,  we're  in  for  it  now!"  yelled  Brooks, 
still  peering  over  the  wall.  "There 's  the  Mexican 
flag!"  he  added,  as  the  red,  white,  and  green  with 
its  emblazoned  Aztec  eagle  fluttered  to  the  top 
of  the  plaza  flagpole. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  three  shots  rang  out  from  the 
hill;  a  singing  bullet  flicked  up  the  sand  at  his 
feet,  and  the  hillside  above  the  stockade  echoed 
the  scattering  crackle  of  musketry.  Skipping 
and  ricochetting  on  the  sandy  floor,  the  bullets 
flew,  burying  themselves  in  the  adobe  walls  with 
a  sighing  sound,  smacking  sharply  on  the  brea 
roofs,  and  droning  overhead  like  the  far-off  hum 
of  busy  bees. 

At  the  first  outburst  of  firing,  the  men  rushed 
to  arms,  and  as  they  piled  out  of  their  quarters 


WAR  121 

Gillie  drew  his  sword,  and  his  figure  straightened. 
In  the  actual  presence  of  danger  the  man's  figure 
loomed  larger  and  nobler,  and  his  clouded  face 
cleared. 

"Marshall,  take  a  dozen  men  to  the  right  roof; 
Brooks,  another  dozen  to  the  left.  Lieutenant 
Somers,  take  command  at  the  west  wall  with 
ten  men;  Lieutenant  Carroll,  to  the  east  gate 
with  the  rest." 

On  the  roofs  of  the  adobes  about  the  stockade, 
on  the  top  of  the  hill,  by  the  belfry  of  the  church, 
were  the  half -hidden  forms  of  armed  men.  Puffs 
of  white  smoke  broke  out  everywhere.  In  full 
view  on  the  face  of  the  hill,  hidden  in  the  corn 
fields  close  at  hand,  shooting  from  behind  the  cor 
ners  of  the  buildings  on  the  streets,  were  the  lurking 
enemy,  loading  and  firing  toward  the  stockade 
with  vicious  rapidity. 

Up  the  veranda  posts,  as  agile  as  monkeys, 
the  frontiersmen  had  clambered,  and  they  were 
now  lying  face  down,  their  heads  toward  the  ridge 
of  the  roof.  Irregularly  their  rifles  spoke  as 
they  sighted  a  head  or  an  arm  on  the  neighboring 
buildings. 

"Look,  over  there,  Morris,"  said  Marshall  to 
the  man  near  him.  "See  that  fellow  climbing 
up  the  roof  of  that  'dobe?  Watch  me  get  him." 
A  moment's  steady  aim,  and  Marshall's  carbine 
cracked.  The  climbing  man  whirled  about  on 


122  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

one  foot,  legs  and  arms  wild-flung,  then  pitched 
headlong  into  the  street. 

"Got  that  fellow,  too,"  grinned  Morris,  as  a 
moment  later  a  Californian  who  had  rashly 
ventured  a  bold  dash  across  a  street  fell  forward 
on  his  face,  kicked  spasmodically,  and  then  lay 
still. 

"Carroll,"  shouted  Gillie,  "have  your  men 
clear  the  hill.  Never  mind  the  roofs." 

"Let  the  houses  across  the  street  alone,  boys. 
Get  the  fellows  on  the  hill.  Shoot  carefully; 
pick  your  men,"  suggested  Carroll. 

His  voice  was  cool  and  deliberate,  but  within, 
his  heart  was  aching  miserably.  Mingled  with 
the  sharp  cracking  of  the  rifles  and  the  deeper 
booming  of  the  escopetas,  he  could  almost  hear 
the  sibilant  words  of  the  Indian  woman: 

"Blood  shall  smear  your  path — shall  smear 
your  path." 

The  irregular  sputter  of  rifles  at  the  gate  facing 
the  hill  grew  into  a  volleying  roar.  On  the  slope 
a  Californian  dropped  his  gun,  toppled  over,  and 
rolled  down.  Another  slid  to  the  ground;  he 
was  grasped  and  supported  by  two  others,  but 
they  too  crumpled  up,  and  the  three,  arms  and 
legs  thrashing  helplessly,  tumbled  halfway  down 
the  incline,  and  lay  still. 

For  an  hour  the  fight  went  on.  As  the  Cali- 
fornians  saw  their  comrades  near  them  totter, 


WAR  123 

grasp  at  the  empty  air,  and  crash  into  the  street 
below,  their  reckless  ardor  cooled.  Slowly,  reluc 
tantly,  the  booming  of  the  escopetas  died  away, 
the  rifles  of  the  Americans  became  silent.  The 
unerring  aim  of  the  frontiersmen  had  swept  the 
streets,  the  houses,  and  the  hill  clear  of  every 
living  thing.  Well  protected  by  the  adobe  walls, 
the  Americans  were  uninjured;  but  in  the  streets 
and  on  the  hillside  lay  six  silent,  sprawling  figures, 
and  as  many  more  had  crawled  home  to  die. 

"Jehosophat!"  cried  Marshall,  as  he  sprang 
excitedly  to  his  feet.  "See  them  skedaddle!" 

In  straggling  groups  the  Californians  could  be 
seen  racing  toward  the  river,  some  on  horseback, 
others  clinging  to  the  stirrups  of  the  riders. 
Beyond  the  stream  the  plain  was  dotted  with 
horsemen  seeking  safety  in  flight. 

The  garrison  broke  into  ringing,  exultant  cheers. 
The  fight  was  over. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"SONS   OP   THE    LAND,    AWAKE!" 

TV  /TAG  NAMARA,  his  brow  black  as  night,  was 
•A-VJ.  one  Of  the  first  to  reach  the  river.  As  he 
sat  on  his  horse,  watching  the  fugitives  gallop  past, 
Servolo  Palera  himself  appeared,  his  face  drawn 
with  dismay. 

"Be  not  downcast,  friend  Palera,"  said  the 
Englishman  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  other's 
arm.  "It  is  a  long  road,  this  on  which  we  have 
started,  and  there  are  many  turnings.  Do  thou 
send  men  to  guard  all  the  crossings  of  the  river. 
Give  them  instructions  to  direct  every  one  to  ride 
to  the  hollow  beyond  the  Paredon  Bluff.  There 
we  can  gather  and  organize  for  further  action, 
and  there  too,  my  Servolo,  thou  wilt  issue  a 
proclamation  that  shall  make  the  land  ring." 

There  they  gathered  behind  the  great  white 
bluff,  a  mile  down  the  stream,  a  confused,  dis 
couraged  crowd  of  young  men.  The  older  men  of 
the  pueblo  had,  in  spite  of  their  midnight  arrest, 
held  themselves  aloof  from  the  attack. 

By  the  side  of  the  little  stream,  in  the  tree- 
embowered  hollow,  more  than  one  young  man  sat 
on  the  grass  silently  weeping  for  the  brother, 
cousin,  or  friend  he  had  seen  totter  and  fall, 
crashing  to  the  street  below. 

I  2.1 


"SONS  OF  THE  LAND,  AWAKE!"    125 

"Madre  de  Dios,"  said  a  boy  of  sixteen,  "but 
the  bullets  of  the  Americans  are  devil-charmed! 
Poor  Pedro,  he  did  but  raise  his  head  above  the 
roof-top,  and  he  died  with  a  small  round  hole 
between  his  eyes." 

Gathering  them  together,  Palera  addressed 
them.  He  was  a  natural,  fervent  orator,  and  soon 
were  their  gloomy  faces  gleaming  with  renewed 
ardor  and  bright  with  hope.  When  he  announced 
that  he  had  reliable  information  that  a  Mexican 
army  would  soon  be  on  the  march  through  Sonora, 
there  was  a  wild  chorus  of  ecstatic  yells.  In 
the  background  stood  MacNamara,  moodily 
chewing  a  twig.  These  verbal  pyrotechnics  were 
all  very  necessary,  but  he  hungered  for  a  little 
less  talk  and  a  little  more  action.  On  his  own 
suggestion  he  was  placed  in  charge  of  the  com 
missary,  and  before  nightfall  he  had  proved  his 
worth.  Cattle  and  sheep  were  driven  into  the 
camp,  and  butchered  on  the  ground. 

Hugo  Vanuela  rode  into  the  camp  during  the 
early  afternoon.  As  his  gaze  swept  the  hollow, 
and  he  noted  the  fires  where  the  meat  was  being 
roasted,  he  smiled  grimly  at  these  evidences  of 
the  work  of  the  ever-active  MacNamara. 

"Ah,  Senor  Vanuela,"  said  Palera  as  he  rode 
up,  "well  I  knew  that  it  would  not  be  long  till 
you  would  be  with  us.  What  news  from  the 
pueblo?" 


126  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"Nothing,  Servolo,  nothing.  The  worthy  gen 
tlemen  whom  Gillie  ornamented  with  chains  last 
night  were  released  this  morning,  even  before  the 
attack,  and  are  still  nursing  their  hurt  dignity." 

As  MacNamara  rode  up  and  lightly  swung 
himself  to  the  ground,  Palera  drew  from  his 
clothing  a  roll  of  paper. 

1 '  Listen,  friends,  I  have  drafted  a  proclamation. 
The  older  men  among  the  genie  de  razon,  our 
friend  Hugo  tells  us,  hesitate,  but  let  us  hope  that 
this  will  stir  their  blood." 

"  Proclamation  of  Servolo  Palera  and  other  Californians 
against  the  Americans: 

"  Calif ornians,  Mexicans,  Sons  of  the  Land,  awake,  and 
strike  for  God  and  Liberty!  Blood  has  been  shed  on  the  streets 
of  Our  Lady  Queen  of  the  Angels.  Homes  have  been  made 
desolate  by  the  cruelty  of  the  strangers  who  would  conquer  us. 
Shall  we  be  capable  of  permitting  ourselves  to  be  subjugated  and 
to  accept  their  insolence  and  the  heavy  yoke  of  slavery?  Shall 
we,  in  whose  veins  flows  the  blood  of  the  conquistadores,  lose 
the  soil  inherited  from  our  fathers,  the  land  which  cost  them 
so  much  labor  and  so  much  blood?  Shall  we  leave  our  families 
victims  of  the  most  barbarous  servitude?  Shall  we  wait  to  see 
our  wives  outraged,  our  innocent  children  beaten  by  American 
whips,  our  property  sacked,  our  temples  profaned — to  drag  out 
a  life  of  shame  and  disgrace? 

"No,  a  thousand  times  no!     Death  rather  than  that. 

"Who  of  you  does  not  feel  his  heart  beat  fiercely,  and  his 
blood  boil,  on  contemplating  our  impending  degradation?  Who 
is  the  Californian  who  is  not  indignant  and  will  not  rise  in  arms  to 
destroy  our  oppressors? 

"We  cannot  believe  that  there  is  one  so  vile  and  so  cowardly. 

"Awake!  Sons  of  the  Land!  To  arms,  and  the  blessing  of 
Heaven  will  smile  on  your  brave  efforts  for  liberty." 


"SONS  OF  THE  LAND,  AWAKE!"    127 

As  he  read,  his  fine,  youthful  face  flushed  with 
emotion,  his  clear  voice  rose  at  the  end  into  a 
triumphant  ring. 

But  there  was  no  responsive  glow  in  the  coun 
tenances  of  his  two  companions.  A  strange  group 
they  were,  standing  beneath  the  twisted  sycamores 
through  which  the  sun  shot  golden  splotches  on 
the  grass.  Palera,  quivering  with  enthusiasm, 
the  other  two  calm  and  watchful,  each  playing 
at  cross  purposes — MacNamara  supremely  sure 
that  he  was  using  them  both  as  pawns  in  the 
great  game  he  was  playing  for  the  winning  of  an 
empire;  Vanuela  taciturn  and  somber,  impassive 
as  an  Indian,  but  inwardly  amused,  for  he  too 
was  playing  a  game,  not  for  an  empire,  but  for 
the  feeding  fat  of  an  ancient  grudge. 

"Grand  words,  my  Servolo — a  ringing  procla 
mation.  My  congratulations  are  thine,"  and 
MacNamara  shook  Servolo 's  hand  with  a  fine 
show  of  admiration.  As  Vanuela  followed  the 
example  of  the  Englishman  he  caught  the  latter's 
sidewise  glance  and  noted  the  sly  droop  of  his 
eyelid,  but  refused  to  smile,  and  met  the  secret 
agent's  wink  with  a  cool  stare. 

"Make  for  me  a  copy,"  Hugo  said  to  Palera, 
"and  I  will  bring  it  before  the  meeting  of  the  Dons 
this  evening." 

At  the  pueblo  Gillie  had  abandoned  any  attempt 
to  police  the  town,  fearing  that  his  men  would  be 


128  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

shot  down  from  behind  cover.  And  Vanuela  had 
been  mistaken  when  he  said  that  the  men  left 
in  the  pueblo  were  doing  nothing.  Though  they 
had  been  released  early  in  the  morning,  they  had 
taken  no  part  in  the  wild,  scattering,  futile  attack 
at  midday.  But  they  were  desperate  men  who 
met  at  the  home  of  Don  Francisco  de  la  Guerra 
that  evening — desperate,  outraged,  and  deter 
mined. 

For  to  them  had  come  the  news  that  the  aged 
Don  Lugo  Yorba  was  dead.  His  kindly  heart,  that 
had  for  ninety  arid  California  summers  beaten 
for  others,  had  given  way  under  the  sudden 
strain  of  the  midnight  arrest  and  the  crushing 
shame  of  the  clanking  chains.  The  asperities 
of  Gillie's  rule,  the  killing  of  Ignacio  Reyes,  the 
dozens  of  homes  that  were  now  scenes  of  heart 
rending  grief,  the  crowning  personal  ignominy 
of  the  shackles,  had  stirred  their  indolent,  peace- 
loving  natures  to  a  pitch  of  exasperation,  and 
when  the  news  of  the  death  of  the  kindly,  much- 
loved  old  man  reached  them,  then  passed  the 
last  hope  of  their  peaceful  acceptance  of  Ameri 
can  rule. 

In  the  temperament  of  the  man  of  Spanish 
blood  there  is  much  of  the  tender  sentiment  of 
the  Celt,  but  more,  much  more,  of  the  pride  and 
dignity  of  the  ancient  Roman.  It  was  that 
which  the  ill-fated  Gillie  had  wounded  beyond 


"SONS  OF  THE  LAND,  AWAKE!"    IBQ 

forgiveness,  in  that  wild  burst  of  wrath  when  he 
had  sent  Carroll  on  his  vengeful  errand. 

There  was  no  doubt,  no  hesitation,  no  division 
of  opinion  now.  The  Americans  had  shown  them 
selves  unfit  to  rule  a  civilized  people — as  unfit  as 
the  fierce  Yaquis  of  Sonora  or  the  wild  Apaches 
beyond  the  Colorado  River. 

The  Calif ornians  had  deemed  them  a  great, 
rich,  clever,  and  magnanimous  nation,  though 
somewhat  cold  and  strange  in  their  ways.  But 
they  had  found  them  rude  in  their  speech,  uncouth 
in  manner,  utterly  unreasonable  and  incompre 
hensible  in  their  governing.  To  the  people  of 
the  pueblo  the  Americans  had  proved  themselves 
men  without  dignity,  without  politeness  of  word 
or  kindness  of  heart,  without  sense  of  justice  or 
consideration  for  old  age. 

True,  the  Dons  had  given  Stockton  their 
paroles,  but  had  not  Captain  Gillie  relieved  them 
from  all  obligation  by  breaking  the  one  unwritten 
condition — that  their  persons  should  be  respected? 
Nothing  was  there  left  for  men  of  spirit  and  honor 
but  to  fight.  And  the  short,  fierce  attack  at 
noonday  had  shown  them  that  the  common 
people  were  ready  to  follow — were  now  awaiting 
their  leadership. 

Then  came  Vanuela  to  the  council  when  they 
were  mentally,  at  least,  prepared  for  war.  Calmly 
and  with  austere  dignity  they  listened  to  his 


i3o  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

message,  for  he  was  no  favorite  among  them.  As 
he  told  them,  in  a  few  short,  sharp  sentences  that, 
whether  they  would  or  no,  the  people  were  ready 
to  fight,  there  was  a  tinge  of  defiance,  something 
of  scorn  in  his  manner.  He  was  gazing  into  their 
unfriendly  eyes.  God,  how  he  hated  them  all, 
from  the  princely  Arillo  at  the  head  of  the  table 
to  the  weazened  Alvaro  at  the  foot!  But  war 
must  make  them  comrades. 

"That  is  my  message,  caballeros — three  hun 
dred  men  under  arms,  by  the  Paredon  Bluff,  and 
here  is  their  voice,"  he  said,  as  he  read  the  proc 
lamation. 

In  their  faces  was  a  vague  dissatisfaction.  This 
young  man,  Palera,  hardly  more  than  a  boy,  a 
maker  of  poems,  who  was  still  singing  at  the  win 
dows  of  the  girls,  had  launched  a  revolt  without 
even  consulting  the  great  ones  of  the  land.  There 
was  a  depressing  silence  in  the  room  when  Vanuela 
finished  the  last  words  of  Servolo's  appeal. 

"Por  Dios,"  said  Don  Augustin  Alvaro  to  Don 
Andreas  Pico,  "the  young  Palera  writes  as  well 
as  he  sings." 

The  younger  brother  of  Governor  Pio  Pico 
was  a  slim  young  man  with  a  face  wonderfully 
fair  for  a  man  of  Spanish  blood.  Not  even  the 
gravity  of  the  occasion  had  driven  the  happy 
smile  from  a  countenance  that  was  full  of  good 
nature  and  radiant  with  the  joy  of  life.  As  he 


"SONS  OF  THE  LAND,  AWAKE!"    131 

noted  Hugo's  air  of  truculent  assurance,  the 
merry  face  of  Don  Andreas  lit  up  with  half- 
scornful  amusement.  Leaning  toward  De  la 
Guerra,  he  whispered: 

' '  Ayer  vaquero 
Hoy  caballero."  l 

De  la  Guerra's  eyes  twinkled,  but  there  was 
no  levity  in  his  manner  as  his  cool  glance  met 
Vanuela's. 

"I  am  glad  to  be -able  to  tell  the  sefior,"  he 
said  with  hauteur,  "that  we  had  already  deter 
mined  on  resistance  before  his  message  arrived." 

Arillo,  who  had  been  stroking  his  beard  thought 
fully,  remarked  with  a  quiet,  half -humorous 
smile : 

"Friends,  friends,  let  us  now  be  frank.  It  is 
no  time  for  jealousies.  Truly,  young  blood  is 
always  hasty,  yet  who  will  say  that  this  is  not 
a  time  for  haste?  The  young  men  have  out 
stripped  us.  Let  us  rather  rejoice  at  that,  not 
regret  it — though  doubtless  we  would  have 
been  better  pleased  if  we  had  arranged  it  ourselves. 
But  we  could  not — most  of  us  being  in  chains." 

Spurred  on  by  the  knowledge  that  the  revolt 
was  no  longer  a  vague,  disorganized  outburst', 
and  that  there  was  an  armed  force  behind  them, 
they  acted  quickly.  Don  Jose"  Maria  Flores,  a 

l" Yesterday  a  cowherder, 
To-day  a  gentleman." 


i3 2  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

captain  in  the  Mexican  army  who  had  seen 
much  service  in  the  wars  against  the  Yaquis,  and 
who  had  been  spending  his  furlough  in  California 
when  the  war  began,  was  chosen  commandant 
and  governor. 

Don  Jos6  Antonio  was  to  be  second  in  command, 
with  the  title  of  colonel.  Don  Andreas  Pico  and 
Don  Manuel  Garfias  were  appointed  by  Flores 
captains  of  the  two  squadrons  of  cavalry.  Don 
Augustin  Alvaro  was  to  be  "Capitan  Auxiliar" 
attached  to  the  staff  of  the  commandant.  Don 
Jesus  Pico,  a  cousin  of  Don  Andreas,  was  to 
leave  in  the  morning  for  San  Luis  Obispo,  while 
Garfias  would  ride  at  once  to  Santa  Barbara, 
bearing  news  of  the  revolt.  Before  evening  fell, 
countless  couriers  were  sent  galloping  through 
the  adjacent  country  to  spread  the  alarm  to  the 
ranches. 

Out  to  the  encampment  by  the  Paredon  Bluff 
rode  Flores  and  Arillo.  They  were  received  with 
wild  acclaim,  and  with  full  accord  of  all  they 
assumed  command.  Servolo  Palera  was  appointed 
brevet  captain,  and  dispatched  with  eighty  men 
toward  the  Cucamonga  Canon  for  the  purpose 
of  capturing  Benito  Willard  and  his  militia 
company. 

The  ringing  words  of  Palera  were  answered. 
The  Hijos  del  pais  were  awake  at  last. 


M 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    BLACK   MATADOR 

ANUEL  ARILLO  had  just  finished  oiling  the 
lock  of  a  battered  old  fowling  piece,  and 
he  looked  at  it  lovingly  as  he  held  it  with  out 
stretched  arm. 

"For  Dios,"  he  said,  "though  old,  it  is  still  a 
good  gun.  Dost  thou  think,  my  Jos6,  that  father 
will  let  us  go  to  fight  the  Americans  when  the 
time  comes?" 

They  were  seated  on  the  broad  veranda  that 
bordered  the  three  sides  of  the  garden  behind 
the  Arillo  home.  Lithe  and  vigorous  were  the 
boys,  with  the  clear  eyes  and  well-knit  frames 
that  told  of  life  in  the  open  and  long  hours  in  the 
saddle. 

Jose  turned  his  slow,  gray  eyes  away  from  the 
distant  ridges,  and  with  a  quick,  awakening 
motion  brushed  back  the  heavy  lock  of  red  hair 
from  his  forehead. 

"That  I  cannot  tell,  Manuel,  but  Senor  De  la 
Guerra  said  only  last  night,  even  in  this  very 
house,  that  every  one  between  the  ages  of  sixteen 
and  sixty  would  be  called  to  go." 

"The  saints  grant  that  he  spoke  truly."  As 
Manuel  wiped  the  oil  from  his  soiled  fingers 
his  sharp  glance  noted  the  other's  moody  and 

133 


i34  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

distraught  air.  His  countenance  lighted  with 
mischievous  merriment. 

"Thinking  again,  Jos6?  Thou  wilt  tire  that 
fine  red  head  of  thine  with  overmuch  work.  Is 
it  Delfina,  or  some  other  fair  lady,  that  brings 
that  far-away  look  into  thy  face?" 

Jos6  frowned,  but  the  frown  melted  into  a  smile. 

"No,  no,  Manuel;  I  have  been  thinking — of 
what  I  can  remember." 

"Was  it  that  sent  thee  wandering  in  thy  night 
garb  in  the  plaza  last  night?"  he  teased.  Then 
Manuel's  bantering  air  suddenly  vanished,  and 
in  his  voice  there  was  much  of  sympathy  as  he 
added  quickly: 

"I  do  not  wonder  that  it  makes  thee  sad. 
Tell  me  again,  if  thou  wilt,  what  thou  canst 
remember  of  the  days  of  thy  babyhood." 

After  a  moment's  thought,  Jos6  answered  slowly : 
'"Tis  little  enough,  and  I  cannot  remember 
whether  or  no  much  of  what  comes  to  me  be 
dreams,  or  in  truth  memories. 

"I  remember,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  as  if  not 
sure  of  his  ground,  "a  house  in  a  narrow  street 
where  donkeys  with  loads  of  wood  on  either 
side  of  their  backs  passed  each  day.  In  a  large 
room  in  front,  at  a  desk  with  many  papers,  there 
sat  a  man — my  father,  I  think.  There  was  a 
lady.  She  was  my  mother,  I'm  sure,  for  she 
used  to  kiss  me  at  night.  That  is  what  comes 


THE  BLACK  MATADOR  135 

to  me  at  the  very  first,  but  it  is  all  very  dim,  and 
perhaps  is  only  what  I  have  dreamed,  for  of 
those  two  I  have  dreamed  often.  Be  they  true 
memories  or  but  dreams,  I  fear  I  shall  never 
know,"  and  he  sighed  softly. 

"But  plainly,  very  plainly,  do  I  remember  one 
night  in  the  street.  I  was  running  in  much  fear, 
from  what  I  do  not  know.  Around  me  were 
others  in  the  dark,  running  wildly  as  well.  Of 
that  I  am  sure.  That  is  not  a  dream." 

"How  old  wert  thou,  Jose?" 

"I  cannot  say,  but  very,  very  small.  After 
that  it  was  all  indistinct  again.  I  was  with  the 
Indians  in  the  mountains,  in  their  brush  huts, 
and  again  often  with  them  by  the  seashore,  for 
in  that  land  the  mountains  came  down  close  to 
the  sea.  One  day,  when  playing  in  a  boat  in  a 
sheltered  bay,  the  wind  carried  me  out  on  the 
wide  water,  and,  tired  and  hungry,  I  slept.  How 
long  I  slept  I  know  not,  but  when  I  awoke  I  was 
in  a  ship  with  many  sailors;  then  for  many  days 
and  nights  I  lay  sick,  near  unto  death.  The 
captain  was  kind  to  me,  not  like  to  some  other 
captains  afterwards;  but  he  died — drowned  one 
night  when  our  ship  went  ashore,  and  all  but  four 
of  the  sailors  were  drowned  with  him." 

"And  those?"  Manuel  had  heard  the  tale  from 
Jose's  lips  a  hundred  times,  but  for  him  it  had 
never  lost  its  fascination. 


136  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Jos6  placed  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  and  his 
shoulders  shook  in  a  little  shiver.  "Some  brown 
men  like  negroes  killed  them  with  clubs  and  ate 
themr  and  me,  too,  they  would  have  killed  in 
time,  but  that  another  captain  bought  me  with 
a  roll  of  red  cloth  from  a  man  with  a  ring  in  his 
nose  and  marks  on  his  face  and  chest.  And 
with  that  captain  I  stayed  until  he  beat  me, 
and  then  I  ran  away  to  another  ship  in  the  port 
of  Mazatlan  in  Mexico.  And  always  have  I 
been  'Jose';  nothing  but  'Jose.'  The  rest  you 
know,  Manuel." 

The  boy  nodded.  Often  had  he  heard  his 
father  tell  of  the  furious  storm  ten  years  before 
that  had  driven  a  strange  bark  on  the  rocky 
point  near  San  Pedro,  and  of  how  he  had  ordered 
his  Indians  and  vaqueros  to  bury  the  drowned 
sailors  in  the  sands  of  the  sea  beach.  But  the 
heart  of  one,  a  boy  of  eight,  was  still  beating,  and 
they  brought  him  to  life,  warming  him  over  a 
fire  of  driftwood  and  pouring  strong,  hot  drinks 
down  his  throat,  for  it  was  a  chill  December  day. 
Don  Jos6  Antonio's  kindly  heart  went  out  to 
the  homeless  lad,  and  he  had  taken  him  to  his 
own  home,  where  they  had  all  learned  to  love 
him  as  their  very  own. 

Spanish  he  spoke,  but  of  a  strange  sort,  with 
many  unintelligible  words  that,  as  the  years 
went  on,  he  forgot.  "Jose  el  Rufo  (Joseph  the 


THE  BLACK   MATADOR  137 

Red-Head)"  they  called  him  far  oftener  than 
"Jose  Arillo."  Jose's  hair  was  red  with  the 
redness  of  fire,  at  which  the  people  of  the  pueblo 
marveled  greatly.  His  was  the  only  red  head  in 
all  Los  Angeles. 

That  he  was  not  of  Spanish  blood  the  sefiora 
always  maintained,  for  though  he  was  quick  of 
thought  he  was  chary  of  sudden  speech  and  slow 
of  anger,  and  there  brooded  in  his  face  a  wistful 
melancholy  and  the  look  of  one  who  was  ever 
seeking  to  grasp,  with  the  grip  of  the  mind, 
something  that  eluded  him. 

"Most  often  of  all,  Manuel,"  he  continued, 
"does  there  come  to  me  the  dream  of  my  father 
at  his  desk,  with  the  flag  spread  on  the  wall 
behind  him.  His  face  I  can  see  plainly,  but  the 
flag  not  so.  And  he  always  looks  at  me,  so 
straight,  and  when  I  rush  to  him  I  always  wake. 
Last  night  I  dreamed  of  him  so.  But  sometime, — 
sometime  I  am  sure,  Manuel, —  I  know  not  why, 
but  still  am  I  certain  that  I  shall  reach  him,  and 
that  time  I  shall  not  wake.  I  believe  he  still 
lives." 

"Why  thinkest  thou  so?" 

"Because  always,  always,  I  come  to  him  a 
little  nearer,  to  where  he  sits  at  the  table,  his 
pen  in  his  hand,  and  the  flag  outspread  behind 
his  head.  For  he  knows  me,  Manuel.  I  can  see 
it  in  the  glad  look  in  his  face,  and  often  he 


i38  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

rises  a  little  in  his  chair.  And  then  I  wake," 
he  added  mournfully 

Jos6  had  acquired  much  of  the  fine  idealism  of 
the  cultured  family  that  had  raised  him,  and  it 
added  greatly  to  his  prepossessing  personality. 

"Yi,  yi,  Jos6,  do  not  think  of  it  so  much  if  it 
makes  thee  sad.  I  do  not  think  of  sad  things, 
and  so  am  ever  happy,"  and  Manuel's  white  teeth 
showed  in  a  sweet  smile  in  which  there  was  all  the 
glad  irresponsibility  of  youth. 

As  Manuel,  whistling  cheerily,  gun  in  hand, 
left  the  veranda,  a  young  woman  stepped  from 
one  of  the  rooms  of  the  east  wing.  It  was 
Delfina,  an  orphan  girl  who,  as  a  motherless 
babe,  had  been  adopted  by  the  senora.  She  was 
small  and  pretty,  with  a  pert  face,  and  her  merry, 
saucy  eyes,  as  they  met  Josh's,  brought  a  glad 
radiance  to  the  boy's  face. 

"Come  sit  by  me,  Delfina;  I  have  something 
to  say  to  thee." 

She  took  her  seat  on  the  end  of  the  bench,  and 
drawing  some  lacework  from  the  little  bag  at  her 
waist,  said  warningly: 

"Keep  thy  distance,  Jos6.  The  senora  may  see 
us." 

"May  I  not  speak  to  Don  Jos6  Antonio  to 
night,  Delfina?" 

"Ah,  yi,  yi,  but  you  are  a  foolish  boy  to  pester 
Don  Jos6  Antonio  when  his  mind  is  full  of  the 


THE  BLACK  MATADOR  139 

great  affairs  of  the  land.  Truly  thou  art,  after 
all,  but  a  boy." 

"A  boy!"  Jose  protested  indignantly.  "I  am 
as  tall  as  the  Don  himself,  and  two  fingers  taller 
than  Manuel." 

"Thou  art  but  seventeen — " 

"But  near  to  eighteen,"  he  protested. 

"Well,  but  eighteen  then,  though  big  for  thy 
age.  But,  Santa  Madre,  it  would  be  madness  to 
talk  to  the  Don  when  there  is  shooting  and  killing 
in  the  town.  Do  you  note  how  he  frowns  all 
day,  and  speaks  but  little?" 

As  she  scanned  Jose's  face  with  quick,  sidewise 
glances  the  mischief  sparkled  in  her  eyes  and 
dimpled  her  cheeks. 

"Those  who  are  truly  men,"  she  teased,  "are 
not  now  sitting  at  the  feet  of  their  ladies,  sighing 
like  the  wind  in  the  trees.  They  are  yonder,  by 
the  Paredon  Bluff,  with  arms  in  their  hands, 
advising  as  to  the  best  way  to  wrest  the  land 
from  the  Americans." 

Her  dexterous  white  fingers  wrought  busily 
with  the  lace,  but  while  her  tone  and  manner 
were  maddening,  there  was  a  gleam  of  pride  in 
her  dark  face  as  she  measured  with  her  eye  the 
breadth  of  the  boy's  shoulders  and  marked  his 
downcast  looks.  He  was  truly  a  dear  boy,  but 
it  was  rare  sport  to  see  him  frown  so  mightily,  to 
have  him  rumple  his  red  hair  until  it  stood  on 


i4o  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

end,  and  to  have  his  big  gray  eyes  turned  up  to 
her,  pathetically  beseeching. 

"Go  to  the  war,  and  get  thyself  a  name,  a 
great  name,"  she  added  teasingly,  "and  then, 
perchance,  the  Don  will  listen  to  thee." 

Josh's  face  flared  red  as  his  bristling  locks,  and 
his  mouth  grew  tight.  True,  he  had  no  name. 
Or  if  he  had,  he  knew  it  not.  The  girl's  words 
were  idle,  thoughtless,  but  they  had  wounded  him 
deeply. 

"As  you  bid  me,  I  will  go,  Delfina,  if  the 
Don  will  let  me."  He  rose  to  his  feet,  and  stood 
looking  at  her  for  a  moment,  his  face  pale  now 
and  his  lip  quivering  a  little. 

"Yes,  I  will  go  and  find  myself  a  name,  or — I 
shall  not  come  back." 

Senora  Arillo  appeared  suddenly  on  the 
threshold,  and  her  eyes  scrutinized  them  suspi 
ciously. 

"  Delfina,  it  is  time  the  chickens  were  fed. 
Jos6,  find  Mariano,  and  send  him  to  me." 

As  the  woman  sat  alone  on  the  veranda  over 
looking  the  garden,  her  fingers  nervously  tapping 
her  knee  and  plaiting  the  stuff  of  her  skirt  back 
ward  and  forward,  her  eyes  again  sought  the  far 
corner  where  the  roses  bloomed.  From  the  sat 
isfied  smile  on  her  handsome,  mature  face  it  was 
plain  that  her  thoughts  were  happy. 

"It  belonged  to  the  church,  and  to  the  church 


THE  BLACK   MATADOR  141 

it  shall  return  when  the  war  is  over.  Not  a 
heretic  hand  shall  touch  it,"  she  murmured. 

The  sudden  outburst  of  hostilities  had  brought 
little  terror  to  the  soul  of  Sefiora  Arillo.  With 
silent  indignation  she  had  watched  the  flight  of 
Pico  and  Castro  and  the  tame  acceptance  of 
American  rule  by  the  men  of  the  pueblo.  Now, 
in  the  blind  sincerity  of  her  primitive  faith,  the 
reopening  of  the  struggle  was  but  the  answer 
that  Heaven  had  accorded  to  the  endless  petitions 
she  had  poured  forth  at  the  feet  of  the  Virgin. 
Woman-like,  she  flinched  at  the  thought  of  her 
husband  and  the  boys  in  the  deadly  tumult  of 
battle,  but  her  firm  faith  upheld  her.  Surely 
the  Virgin  and  the  saints,  who  had  already 
answered  her  prayers,  would  not  forsake  her 
then.  As  for  the  young  American  who  had  so 
cleverly  won  the  high  regard  of  her  husband  and 
the  love  of  her  daughter,  he  was  certainly  a  fine 
young  man,  but  he  was  doubtless  like  other  men, 
and  could  forget.  If  he  did  come  back  after 
the  war  was  over — well,  that  was  a  problem  that 
could  be  settled  when  it  arrived,  if  it  ever  did. 

Mariano,  a  thick-set,  roughly-clad,  brown-faced 
man,  in  whose  high  cheekbones  showed  something 
of  the  Indian,  came  slowly  up  the  garden  path 
from  the  outhouses. 

"The  padrona  sent  for  me?"  he  inquired 
deferentially. 

10 


i42  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"When  do  they  attack  the  Americans  again, 
Mariano?" 

"That  I  cannot  say,  senora,  but  I  think  to 
morrow  night." 

She  glanced  around  her,  and  stepping  to  the 
door  looked  within,  but  there  was  no  one  in  sight. 

4 '  Attend  closely,  Mariano.  Have  ready  shovels, 
picks,  and  ropes.  We  will  dig  it  up  and  deliver 
it  to  the  Commandant  Flores  after  the  next 
attack.  Have  also  a  carreta  and  oxen  close  at 
hand.  Now,  remember,  not  a  word  to  any  one." 

Mariano  nodded  his  black  head  comprehend- 
ingly,  and  as  he  twirled  the  rim  of  his  big  sombrero 
over  and  over  in  his  gnarled  hands,  there  was 
grim  satisfaction  in  his  otherwise  stupid  face. 

All  the  long  day  had  Loreto  kept  her  room, 
appearing  only  at  meals,  with  a  face  so  woefully 
swollen  with  tears  that  the  Don  had  taken  her 
little  chin  in  his  hand  and  said,  in  his  strong,  calm 
way: 

"Mary  and  the  angels  protect  thee,  but  it  is  a 
heavy  burden  for  thy  young  shoulders  to  carry. 
Ask  thy  patron  saint  to  make  it  come  right  in  the 
end,  child." 

"Do  not  sorrow  so,"  said  her  mother,  when 
Don  Jos6  Antonio  had  left  the  house.  ' '  Thinkest 
thou  there  are  not  other  men  in  the  world?  Yi, 
yi,  when  the  war  is  over,  and  a  new  governor 
comes  from  Mexico  with  many  fine  young  officers 


THE  BLACK  MATADOR  143 

in  his  train,  in  gold  lace  and  nodding  plumes, 
little  wilt  thou  think  of  the  American.  Though 
I  cannot  deny,"  she  added,  "that  I  like  him  far 
better  than  I  like  his  country." 

Loreto  turned  on  her  mother  a  slow,  wondering 
gaze,  and  her  lips  trembled  for  a  moment,  but  she 
lowered  her  eyes  and  remained  silent.  Sleep 
came  not  to  her  that  night.  With  all  the  mad 
dening  clearness  of  midnight  impression  there 
thronged  on  her  the  scenes  of  the  night  before, — 
her  father  struggling,  enwrapped  in  the  arms 
of  the  marine,  the  horror  of  the  chains,  the  cold, 
set  face  of  Carroll,  the  appeal  in  his  voice  as  he 
turned  to  her,  and,  clearest  of  all,  her  own  cruel 
words. 

The  first  fierce  flush  of  her  fury  had  passed, 
and  her  heart  was  now  pleading  for  him.  It 
was  the  orders  of  Captain  Gillie.  What  could 
he  have  done  but  obey?  With  something  akin 
to  a  shock,  she  realized  for  the  first  time  that 
he  too  must  be  suffering,  and  a  great  longing 
possessed  her  to  recall  her  bitter  words.  If  she 
could  only  let  him  know  that,  come  what  might, 
she  was  his  and  his  alone!  But  there  was  no 
way ;  between  herself  and  the  ,worn-eyed,  heavy- 
hearted  man  in  the  stockade  only  a  few  hundred 
yards  away,  heavy,  black,  and  impenetrable  lay 
the  shadow  of  the  sword. 

Kneeling  at  the  barred  window,  she  gazed  out 


144  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

at  the  black  sky  pulsating  with  living,  scintillating 
stars.  She  would  ask  for  divine  assistance,  ask 
that  in  some  way,  somehow,  there  should  be 
sent  to  him  the  knowledge  that  she  no  longer 
blamed  him  for  the  deeds  of  the  night  before. 
Slowly  the  beads  slipped  through  her  fingers, 
and  as  she  finished  she  laid  her  fevered  brow  on 
the  cool  windowsill,  and  whispered  into  the 
darkness. 

"Oh,  Mary,  Mother  of  Sorrows,  tell  him,  put 
it  in  his  heart  and  in  his  mind,  that  I  still  love 
him.  Protect  him,  and  save  him  from  all  harm." 

From  beyond  the  plaza  came  shrill  yells,  and 
an  outburst  of  firing.  The  beads  dropped  from 
her  fingers  to  the  floor,  and  she  wept  piteously. 

"Child,"  came  a  whisper  from  the  darkness,  a 
whisper  singularly  soft  and  clear,  "thy  prayer  is 
heard.  What  message  didst  thou  wish  to  send 
the  American?" 

Close  to  the  bars  the  figure  of  a  man  loomed 
faintly  in  the  darkness.  Her  heart  stood  still, 
while  a  wave  of  terror  swept  over  her,  paralyzing 
her  to  the  very  roots  of  her  hair,  and  numbing 
her  finger  tips  in  its  icy  chill.  The  figure  wore 
an  old-fashioned  hat,  flat  and  round;  the  face  was 
covered  with  a  corner  of  the  cloak.  There  could 
be  no  mistake — it  was  the  Black  Matador! 
Her  limbs  were  giving  way  beneath  her,  and 
she  felt  herself  sinking  to  the  floor. 


THE   BLACK  MATADOR  145 

"Child,"  came  the  voice  again,  gently  reassur 
ing,  "have  no  fear.  I  have  been  sent  to  help 
thee,  not  to  harm  thee.  What  message  wilt  thou 
send  to  the  American?  I  am  a  friend." 

Was  it  a  dream,  or  was  she  mad  ?  Was  the  dim 
shape  before  her,  that  darker  spot  in  the  obscurity, 
but  a  vision  of  her  own  disordered  fancy?  A  call 
would  bring  her  mother  and  the  servants  rushing 
into  the  room. 

"Make  no  sound — do  not  call — the  Black 
Matador  sorrows  for  those  who  sorrow,  but  he 
serves  only  those  who  will  it.  If  I  go  from  thee 
empty-handed  now,  I  cannot  come  again.  'Tis 
mortal  sin  to  scorn  the  help  that  Heaven  sends." 

To  her  fading  senses  the  voice  seemed  far-off 
and  unreal,  but  there  was  in  it  a  gentleness  that 
stilled  her  fears.  She  crossed  herself  thrice,  and 
felt  assured  that  no  bodily  harm  could  assail  her. 

Quickly  as  it  had  come,  her  terror  fled.  Be  it 
ghost,  man,  or  devil,  she  would  not  scorn  his  aid. 
There  was  no  hesitation  now.  Fumbling  with 
quivering  fingers  in  the  darkness,  she  found 
the  quill  pen  and  wrote  quickly  on  the  flyleaf  of 
her  prayer  book: 

"I  meant  not  what  I  said.     I  love  thee. 

"LORETO." 

Again  she  crossed  herself  thrice,  and  passed  the 
missive  out  into  the  darkness.  Icy  cold  were 


146  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

the  fingers  that  met  hers.  At  the  ghostly  touch 
she  lost  her  courage,  and  swooned.  From  beyond 
the  plaza  the  guns  spluttered  again  for  a  moment, 
and  died  away.  Out  in  the  open  there  was  only 
darkness. 

Came  morning.  The  girl  opened  her  eyes, 
and  smiled  at  the  strangeness  of  her  fancied 
midnight  vision.  In  vain  she  tried  to  shake  off 
the  impression.  As  she  knelt  in  her  nightrobe  to 
pray,  she  saw  on  the  floor  a  folded  paper,  white 
and  glaring  in  the  gray  light  of  the  dawn.  Round- 
eyed,  she  stared  at  it,  wondering,  fearing.  Then, 
with  trembling  fingers,  she  opened  it  and  read: 

"Thy  message  has  made  me  happy.  Be 
confident.  All  will  come  right  in  the  end. 

"JACK." 

As  the  conviction  grew  upon  her  that  the 
experience  of  the  night  was  no  dream,  and  that 
her  dark-garbed  visitor  was  none  other  than  the 
Black  Matador,  serving  her  in  obedience  to  a 
higher  power,  she  trembled  again  with  the  over 
powering  fear  of  the  unknown. 

And  yet  it  was  not  so  strange.  For  were  not 
the  books  Father  Estenaga  at  the  Plaza  Church 
had  given  her  to  read  full  of  wondrous  tales  of 
prayers  heard  and  favors  granted  ?  Was  not  God 
as  powerful  and  the  Virgin  as  kind  and  loving 
now  as  then? 


THE  BLACK  MATADOR  147 

Filled  with  the  simple,  childlike  faith  of  the 
Spanish  woman,  she  fell  on  her  knees  and  poured 
forth  her  soul  in  thanks.  And  in  her  face,  no 
longer  sorrowful,  was  a  light  that  caused  the 
senora  to  wonder  and  Delfina  to  cross  herself 
in  awe. 


CHAPTER  XV 
THE  CAPTAIN'S  DEFIANCE 

/rpHROUGH  their  field  glasses  the  American 
-*•  officers  had  witnessed  the  wild  scurry  of  the 
fugitives  across  the  stream,  but  they  knew  nothing 
of  the  rendezvous  behind  the  Paredon  Bluff. 
Several  roads  led  to  the  ravine,  one  skirting  the 
river  bank,  others  over  the  neighboring  hills, 
and  as  the  horsemen  disappeared  in  various 
directions  the  Americans  hastily  concluded  that 
they  were  seeking  safety  at  the  distant  ranches. 

"Naw,"  Marshall  was  saying,  "them  fellows 
ain't  quit,  not  by  a  long  shot.  There 're  just 
gettin'  their  second  wind." 

Ignoring  the  bantering  remarks  of  his  comrades, 
he  spent  the  afternoon  at  work  on  the  cannon, 
both  of  which  he  had  now  mounted  on  carreta 
wheels,  tying  them  securely  in  place  with  rawhide 
riatas.  In  spite  of  his  industrious  hammering 
he  had  not  as  yet  been  able  to  remove  the  spiking 
from  the  vent  holes. 

It  was  nearing  midnight  when  the  frontiersman 
on  guard  at  the  east  gate  detected  subdued  sounds 
close  at  hand  in  the  darkness.  Then  came  the 
soft  shuffling  of  feet  on  the  sand,  and  the  heavy 
breathing  of  burdened  men.  As  he  leaned  over 
the  wall,  his  eyes  and  ears  strained  to  utmost 

148 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  DEFIANCE        149 

tension,  a  wild  chorus  of  yells  came  from  below, 
and  the  timbers  of  the  gate  bent  and  creaked 
under  the  impact  of  a  heavy  blow.  But  well 
had  Marshall  done  his  work.  The  gate  stood  fast. 
The  men  on  duty,  seated  on  the  verandas  or 
sprawling  half  asleep  in  the  sand,  rushed  to  their 
posts,  and  with  a  volleying  roar  a  long  line  of 
thin  spitting  streaks  of  flame  burst  from  the 
wall.  In  the  momentary  flash  was  revealed  a 
huddled  mass  of  men  ranged  along  both  sides  of 
a  heavy  log.  Cries  of  pain  and  dismay  were 
followed  by  the  swift  patter  of  running  feet,  and 
the  hush  of  night  again  fell  on  the  stockade. 

Carroll  took  charge  at  midnight,  relieving 
Lieutenant  Somers  and  his  men.  As  he  restlessly 
paced  the  sandy  floor  of  the  stockade,  the  unhappy 
man  longed  vainly  for  the  power  to  read  the 
future.  But  a  few  hours  ago  his  whole  life  was 
bright  with  a  glad  radiance,  whose  glory  seemed 
to  stretch  down  the  coming  years,  and  now  the 
future  seemed  as  dark  and  gloomy  as  the  inky 
sky  above  him. 

Vividly  she  flashed  on  his  memory  as  he  had 
seen  her  that  Sunday  morning  in  the  church,  and 
the  night  when  he  had  saved  her  from  the  drunken 
straggler  in  the  plaza.  But  last  of  all,  burned 
in  his  brain  the  memory  of  the  deadly  pallor  of 
her  face  as  her  lips  hissed  the  words  that  forever 
cut  him  out  of  her  life.  Well  he  knew  the  strength 


ISO  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

of  family  ties  among  people  of  Spanish  blood,  the 
reverence  that  is  paid  to  the  father  as  the  head  of 
the  household,  the  deep  sense  of  personal  dignity, 
and  his  heart  ached  within  him.  Awed  and 
wondering,  he  recalled  the  warning  words  of  the 
Indian  woman: 

"The  great  hearts  thou  reverest  shall  be 
humbled.  Friendship  shall  walk  in  clanking 
chains.  Thy  heart  shall  be  crushed  as  by  a 
stone." 

From  the  west  gate  came  the  sound  of  excited 
whispers,  and  after  Carroll  had  stood  listening 
attentively  for  a  moment,  he  strode  over  to  the 
wall. 

"Step  up  here,  lieutenant,"  whispered  a  marine. 
"See  if  you  can  see  anything  down  there.  Brooks 
says  there  is  something  moving,  close  to  the  gate. 
Look!  Right  down  there!"  He  covered  the 
spot  with  his  rifle.  "Say  the  word,  and  I  '11  fire." 

"Senor,  do  not  fire,"  came  from  the  darkness 
a  muffled  voice  in  Spanish.  "I  mean  no  harm. 
I  wish  only  to  deliver  a  message." 

"Keep  him  covered,  Carruthers.  Now,  who 
are  you?  Do  you  come  from  the  enemy?  Have 
you  a  communication  for  the  commanding  officer?" 
asked  Carroll. 

"I  have  a  note  for  Lieutenant  Carroll." 

Out  of  the  black  reek  in  front  of  the  Americans 
rose  a  slender  rod,  a  white  paper  folded  around 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  DEFIANCE        151 

its  end.  As  the  lieutenant  reached  for  it,  his 
fingers  trembled  with  excitement. 

"Stay  where  you  are,  down  there,"  he  said  in 
Spanish.  "Not  a  movement,  or  you  will  be 
fired  on."  Then  to  the  marines:  "Both  of  you 
keep  him  covered,  and  fire  at  the  least  move." 

With  wildly  beating  heart,  Carroll  hurried  into 
the  building  and  held  Loreto's  note  close  to  the 
candle  flame.  And  as  he  refolded  it  and  placed 
it  in  his  wallet,  his  eyes  were  moist  with  joy. 
Hastily  scribbling  an  answer,  he  returned  to  the 
wall. 

"Can  you  return  an  answer?"  he  whispered  into 
the  darkness. 

"I  can."  And  then,  as  Carroll  reached  down 
the  rod,  "I  have  it.  Adios,  sefior,"  and  he  was 
gone. 

The  marine  giggled.  "I  reckon  the  lieutenant 
has  a  girl  among  the  greasers,"  he  drawled. 

"None  of  your  business  if  he  has,"  snarled  a 
frontiersman.  "He's  all  right,  even  if  he  has  a 
dozen." 

Carroll  paced  again  the  long,  dark  veranda 
during  the  quiet  hours  till  morning.  Who  could 
the  message  bearer  be?  He  thought  of  Jos6,  of 
Manuel,  but  neither  of  them  would  have  under 
taken  such  a  dangerous  errand;  and  the  voice 
of  the  stranger  was  one  he  believed  he  had  never 
before  heard. 


i52  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

A  scrambling,  sliding  sound  on  the  roof  above 
caused  the  lieutenant  to  halt  suddenly,  walk  down 
the  steps,  and,  pistol  in  hand,  gaze  up  at  the 
sloping  roof. 

"Don't  shoot,"  came  a  low  voice,  from  the 
darker  blot  of  shadow  on  the  edge.  "Look  out 
below — I'm  comin'  down." 

A  man  slid  to  the  ground,  landing  cat-like  on 
his  feet.  Jim  Marshall,  as  he  picked  up  his  hat 
and  replaced  it  on  his  head,  was  grinning  half- 
apologetically  at  the  officer. 

"Marshall,"  said  Carroll  in  a  stern  tone,  "have 
you  a  leave  of  absence  from  the  captain?" 

The  frontiersman  shook  his  head. 

"This  passes  all  patience, —  absent  from  the 
post  at  such  a  time  as  this!"  continued  the 
lieutenant.  "Three  times  this  month  you  have 
been  absent  without  leave.  You  are  under 
arrest.  Brooks,  place  the  prisoner  in  the  guard 
house.  The  captain  will  dispose  of  his  case  in 
the  morning." 

Marshall  raised  his  hand  respectfully  to  his 
hat  brim. 

"All  right,  all  right,  lieutenant.  I  ain't  kickin' 
none,"  he  remarked,  as  he  followed  the  marine. 

Silently  the  gray  dawn  crept  over  the  eastern 
hills,  and  hardly  had  the  last  notes  of  the  morn 
ing  bugle  died  away  when  there  was  a  burst  of 
firing,  and  the  grumbling,  breakfastless  men  again 


THE   CAPTAIN'S   DEFIANCE         153 

rushed  to  their  positions,  the  frontiersmen  to  the 
roofs  and  the  marines  to  the  gates.  The  Cali- 
fornians,  profiting  by  the  lesson  of  yesterday's 
attack,  had  carefully  concealed  themselves,  and 
not  a  marksman  could  be  seen,  though  the  bullets 
were  singing  above  the  stockade  and  kicking 
up  the  dust  in  the  open.  High  up  on  the  hill 
spurts  of  smoke  broke  from  the  old  ramparts,  but 
nothing  save  the  protruding  rifle  barrels  were 
visible. 

"I've  got  a  notion  to  put  a  bullet  into  one 
of  them  shuttered  windows,  just  to  get  even," 
remarked  a  disgusted  riflemen,  as  he  primed  his 
flintlock. 

"Don't  ye  do  it,  Morris,"  protested  Jim 
Marshall,  who  had  been  released  when  the  attack 
began;  "ye'd  probably  kill  a  woman  if  ye  did. 
I'll  bet  they're  watchin'  this  show  through  the 
cracks.  Wait !  See  the  head  of  that  horse  sticking 
out  from  behind  that  adobe?" 

The  frontiersman  fired  as  he  spoke,  and  the 
animal,  with  an  agonizing  scream,  broke  its  tether, 
sprang  into  full  view,  and  rolled  over  in  the 
street.  A  marine,  close  to  Carroll  at  the  east 
gate,  gurgled  and  tottered  backward,  shot  through 
the  neck.  With  his  hands  on  the  sand,  he  raised 
his  shoulders  from  the  ground,  a  look  of  agony 
on  his  face ;  then  the  blood  spurted  in  a  red  streak 
from  his  throat.  A  moment  later  a  frontiersman 


154  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

drew  up  his  legs  with  a  groan,  and  rolled  slowly 
off  the  roof. 

The  Americans,  sobered  by  the  sudden  death 
of  two  of  their  number,  were  loading  rapidly, 
and  firing  deliberately  at  every  puff  of  smoke. 
There  was  none  of  the  idle  chaffing  of  yesterday, 
and  their  faces  wore  an  expression  of  tensest 
determination.  Not  for  nothing  had  MacNamara, 
the  evening  before,  impressed  upon  the  Cali- 
fornians  the  absolute  necessity  of  keeping  under 
cover  and  of  changing  their  positions  after  each 
shot.  They  were  obeying  his  suggestions  faith 
fully,  and  the  bullets  of  the  Americans,  though 
they  crashed  into  the  corners  of  the  buildings  and 
flicked  the  dust  from  the  tops  of  the  old  ramparts 
on  the  hill,  did  no  execution. 

"Flag  of  truce  coming  up  the  street,  captain," 
called  a  marine  from  the  east  gate. 

"Cease  firing,"  the  bugle  blared.  "Hold  your 
fire!"  called  Gillie.  "Keep  your  streets  covered 
from  the  gates,  but  admit  them." 

The  big  bars  crossing  the  east  gate  were 
laboriously  lifted,  and  as  it  yawned  open,  two 
Calif ornians  entered.  They  stepped  quickly  to 
the  center  of  the  stockade,  where  Gillie  awaited 
them,  his  sword  point  on  the  ground,  his  hands 
clasped  over  the  hilt.  The  young  officer  in 
advance  of  the  white  flag  halted  a  few  feet  in 
front  of  the  American,  saluted,  and  brought 


THE  CAPTAIN'S   DEFIANCE         155 

his  heels  together  with  a  military  click,  while 
his  sharp  eyes  swept  the  interior  of  the  stockade, 
the  mounted  guns,  the  two  bodies  on  the  ground, 
and  the  men  on  the  roofs. 

"Captain  Gillie?"  he  inquired  in  excellent 
English.  Gillie  nodded. 

"I  have  the  honor  to  make  a  formal  demand 
for  a  surrender  of  your  position." 

"What  terms  have  you  to  offer?" 

Along  the  roofs  were  seated  the  frontiersmen, 
facing  the  inclosure,  their  knees  drawn  up  to  their 
chins,  their  heels  digging  into  the  slanting  roofs. 
As  the  question  asked  by  the  captain  reached  their 
ears  there  was  a  unanimous  gasp  of  surprise, 
and  muttered  curses  ran  along  the  line  as  they 
looked  at  one  another. 

The  short-clipped  utterance  of  the  Californian 
came  clearly  to  them  in  the  stillness. 

"You  will  haul  down  your  flag,  turn  over  your 
arms,  horses,  and  ammunition,  and  surrender 
yourselves  as  prisoners  of  war." 

Gillie  was  scanning  the  young  man's  face 
curiously. 

"Who  are  you,  anyway?"  he  asked  bluntly. 

"Don  Jose  Maria  Flores,  in  command  of  the 
troops  now  serving  under  the  Mexican  flag  in 
our  territory  of  Alta  California,"  he  said  super 
ciliously,  as  he  twirled  his  curled  mustache  with 
a  nonchalant  air,  and  glared  haughtily  at  Gillie. 


i56  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"We  have  now  over  three  hundred  men  under 
arms,"  he  continued,  "and  in  a  few  days  it  will 
be  a  thousand.  Your  position  here  is  utterly 
untenable,  and  I  pledge  you  my  word  that  the 
persons  of  you  and  your  men  shall  be  unharmed. 
You  will  have  four  hours  to  consider  the  matter." 

"The  word  of  a  man  who  has  already  broken 
his  parole  of  honor  is  but  poor  security,"  said 
Gillie,  not  in  a  taunting  tone,  but  with  the  air  of 
one  stating  a  regretable  fact. 

Flores'  face  reddened.  "When  I  and  the 
others  gave  you  our  paroles,  Captain  Gillie," 
he  said,  not  without  a  certain  dignity,  "it  was 
with  the  understanding  that  our  persons  should 
be  respected.  How  the  promise  was  kept,  let 
the  story  of  two  nights  ago  tell.  You,  captain, 
were  the  first  to  break  the  terms  of  the  parole." 

"Jehosophat,"  chuckled  Marshall,  "listen  to 
that  now,  will  you?  He  certainly  landed  one  on 
the  captain  that  time.  There 's  more  than  a  grain 
of  truth  in  what  he  says." 

Gillie  was  silent,  pondering  in  his  slow  way 
the  last  words  of  Flores.  His  hand  wandered 
to  his  lower  lip.  Again  consternation  appeared 
in  the  faces  of  the  men  on  the  roof. 

"By  God,"  muttered  a  frontiersman  in  a  voice 
that  trembled  with  indignation,  "if  he's  going  to 
give  up  — " 

"Now  hold  your  horses,  Frank,"  warned  Jim 


THE  CAPTAIN'S  DEFIANCE        157 

Marshall.  "Keep  cool — keep  cool.  The  captain 
is  several  kinds  of  a  durn  fool,  but  he's  no 
coward." 

Gillie  smiled  in  his  twisted  way.  "You  are 
very  kind,  sefior,  but  your  four  hours'  time  is 
unnecessary.  I  can  answer  you  now." 

1 '  Then  you  surrender  ? ' ' 

The  captain  turned  and,  pointing  toward  the 
flag  flying  above  the  heads  of  the  frontiersmen, 
"When  that  flag  comes  down,"  he  said  in  a  louder 
tone,  "if  it  ever  does,  it  will  not  be  taken  down  by 
American  hands.  Come  and  take  it  down  your 
selves.  Our  answer  is — no!"  he  thundered. 

To  their  feet  jumped  the  men  on  the  roof. 
With  hats  in  one  hand,  their  rifles  in  the  other, 
they  cheered  him,  cheered  till  their  faces  were 
red,  cheered  till  their  voices  were  hoarse,  cheered 
till  they  stopped  only  through  sheer  exhaustion. 

They  had  defied  him,  they  had  hated  him,  they 
had  ignored  and  broken  all  his  regulations  for 
the  governing  of  the  post.  Most  of  them  had 
spent  long,  weary  hours  in  confinement  by  his 
order.  They  knew,  in  their  careless  way,  that 
he  had  somehow  failed  in  his  management  of 
them  and  in  his  relations  with  the  Calif ornians. 
Among  themselves  they  had  cursed  him,  many  a 
time,  fluently,  bitterly,  and  eloquently,  to  their 
hearts'  satisfaction.  But  in  that  one  last  spoken 
word  he  had  come  to  his  own  again.  He  was 

11 


1 58  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

their  leader — a  leader  they  would  follow  to  the 
very  gates  of  hell. 

The  two  Californians  looked  up,  awed  by  the 
avalanche  of  sound. 

"Permit  me,"  said  Flores  courteously,  "to 
congratulate  you  on  the  spirit  of  your  men.  It 
is  so  different  from  what  one  would  expect," 
he  added  maliciously.  "In  ten  minutes  we 
shall  resume  firing.  I  have  the  honor  to  bid 
you  good  day." 

He  saluted  stiffly  and,  with  his  companion, 
marched  out  the  stockade  gate. 


D 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    RACE    FOR   THE   HILLTOP 

ON  JOSE  MARIA  FLORES,  commander  in 
chief  of  the  Californians,  was  a  fiery-eyed, 
handsome  man  of  thirty.  Grandiloquent  in 
speech,  pompous  in  manner,  he  was  nevertheless 
a  capable  and  courageous  officer. 

He  had  exaggerated  but  little  when  he  boasted 
to  Gillie  that  there  were  now  three  hundred 
Californians  under  arms,  though  the  truth  was 
that  only  half  of  them  had  guns,  and  those,  old 
fowling  pieces.  The  rest  were  armed  with  lances 
made  by  fastening  a  steel  point  to  the  end  of  a  ' 
ten-foot  willow  shaft.  Under  cover  of  night  the 
men  who  had  met  at  the  Paredon  Bluff  had  slipped 
silently  back  to  the  city,  leaving  their  horses  in 
charge  of  a  squad  at  the  river,  or  hidden  behind 
the  buildings.  When  the  assault  was  made  on  the 
stockade,  two  hundred  of  them  were  waiting  in  the 
darkness,  across  the  street,  ready  to  rush  the  gate 
had  it  given  way  before  the  battering  ram. 

"Bah,  it  is  nothing,"  said  MacNamara,  when 
the  news  of  the  repulse  reached  them.  "Recruits 
are  coming  in  every  hour.  We  can  harass  the 
Americans  night  and  day,  till  they  will  have 
time  neither  to  sleep  nor  to  eat.  We  can  simply 

159 


160  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

tire  them  out."  And  this  was  the  plan  that  had 
been  adopted. 

In  an  old  deserted  adobe  near  the  river,  well 
protected  from  the  American  rifles  by  a  dense 
peach  orchard  located  on  a  rise  in  the  ground,  the 
Californian  officers  had  established  headquarters. 
Here,  the  morning  after  the  attempt  to  ram  the 
gate,  they  were  holding  a  consultation.  All 
were  present  except  Arillo,  who  was  at  San  Gabriel 
searching  for  arms;  Servolo  Palera  and  Diego 
Sepulveda,  who  had  left  at  sunrise  in  pursuit  of 
Willard's  company;  and  Vanuela,  who  was  riding 
the  country  between  the  pueblo  and  the  sea, 
warning  the  rancheros  to  drive  their  cattle  away 
from  the  beach,  so  that  in  case  reinforcements 
for  Gillie  arrived  from  the  north  the  invaders 
would  find  no  means  of  sustenance  as  they  marched 
inland. 

From  where  they  sat  on  the  veranda  they  could 
see,  over  the  tops  of  the  peach  trees,  the  rounded 
summit  of  the  hill,  and  the  flagpole  of  the  stockade, 
where  the  American  colors  fluttered  in  the  morning 
breeze.  The  firing  was  going  on  steadily,  the 
sharp  crack  of  the  rifles  mingling  with  the  deeper 
booming  of  the  escopetas. 

"Would  it  not  be  well,  Almagro,  to  again 
summon  them  to  surrender?"  Flores  asked  of 
MacNamara,  who  sat  at  his  elbow. 

There  was  respectful  deference  in  the  tones  of 


THE  RACE  FOR  THE  HILLTOP     161 

the  commandant.  By  judicious  use  of  the  subtle 
flattery  at  which  he  was  an  expert,  the  secret 
agent  had  won  for  himself  a  high  place  in  the 
regard  of  Flores. 

"Not  yet — not  just  yet,"  he  cautioned.  "Let 
this  attack  continue  for  at  least  an  hour — long 
enough  for  them  to  realize  that  they  are  again 
surrounded,  and  that  we  are  in  earnest  this 
time." 

"Oh,  for  artillery,  for  even  one  cannon,"  sighed 
Flores,  "to  blow  down  that  accursed  gate,  and 
they  would  be  ours." 

"Why  not  wish  for  a  dozen  arrobas  of  powder, 
or  an  army  of  ten  thousand  from  Sonora?  It  is 
easy — wishing,"  remarked  Don  Augustin  Alvaro, 
as  he  took  a  pinch  of  snuff.  He  did  not  like 
Flores,  and  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal  it. 

MacNamara's  brows  were  knit  in  troubled 
thought,  and  his  fingers  played  nervously  in  the 
depths  of  his  black  beard.  He  had  been  con 
sidering  the  advisability  of  riding  to  Santa  Bar 
bara,  where  the  British  vessels  lay  at  anchor,  and 
attempting  to  secure  two  or  three  pieces  of 
cannon  from  the  commodore.  But  the  distance 
was  great,  and  he  was  doubtful  of  the  result. 
For  though  the  commodore  was  well  acquainted 
with  him  as  Father  MacNamara,  and  was  familiar 
with  the  whole  matter  of  the  land  grant,  it  was 
questionable  whether  the  naval  officer  would 


1 62  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

approve  of  the  r61e  MacNamara  was  at  present 
playing,  or  that  he  would  give  him  the  guns  while 
the  result  of  the  revolt  was  still  in  doubt. 

The  sound  of  running  feet  caused  them  to  turn 
their  heads,  and  a  red-headed  young  man  shot 
across  the  open  space  in  front  of  the  house,  and 
rushed  up  to  the  veranda.  It  was  Jos£,  breathless 
and  hatless,  and  as  he  faced  the  officers,  and 
leaned  with  one  hand  against  the  veranda  post, 
he  gasped: 

"A  cannon,  caballeros !    A  cannon ! ' ' 

"Caramba!"  exclaimed  Flores,  springing  to  his 
feet.  "Have  the  Americans  unspiked  the  old 
guns?  I  saw  them  in  the  stockade." 

"No,"  panted  Jos£;  "it  is  for  us.  It  is  in  the 
garden  of  Senora  Arillo.  Mariano  is  digging  it 
up  now.  The  senora  sent  me;  she  says  that  it 
is  time  you  should  have  it." 

There  was  now  no  colorful  patch  of  roses  in 
the  patio  of  the  Arillo  home,  but  instead  a  yawning 
hole  where,  since  the  night  before  the  arrival  of 
Stockton  a  month  before,  had  been  buried  the 
brass  cannon  of  the  plaza,  which  for  years  had 
stood  in  front  of  the  church  and  had  roared  forth 
its  salutes  on  many  a  feast  day. 

"Por  Dios,"  the  senora  had  said  as  she  rose 
that  August  night  from  her  bed,  "the  heretics 
shall  not  have  the  cannon  of  the  church."  In 
the  silent  night,  with  the  help  of  the  ever-devoted 


THE  RACE  FOR  THE   HILLTOP     163 

Mariano,  she  had  dragged  it  to  her  garden,  the 
rawhide  thongs  bruising  her  arms,  and  bringing 
the  blood  dripping  from  her  fingers — all  of 
which  she  had  borne  with  a  glad,  fierce  joy  for 
the  greater  glory  of  God. 

"Santa  Madre,  that  is  welcome  news!"  ex 
claimed  Flores.  "Blow  the  bugle,"  he  com 
manded  the  boy  at  his  side,  "that  the  firing  may 
cease.  Meanwhile,  I  will  again  summon  the 
Americans  to  surrender.  Do  you,  Almagro,  see  if 
the  boy's  tale  be  true;  but  remember — our  word 
of  honor  is  pledged.  Not  a  thing  of  preparation 
must  be  done  while  the  white  flag  flies.  When 
the  bugle  sounds  again,  three  long  notes,  the  truce 
is  at  an  end." 

At  the  end  of  a  second  interview  with  Gillie, 
an  interview  which  terminated  in  a  still  more 
emphatic  negative  from  the  American  commander, 
Flores  left  the  stockade,  a  grim  smile  on  his  hand 
some  face.  Almost  immediately  the  three  bugle 
notes  rang  out,  and  the  firing  was  resumed  more 
fiercely  than  before. 

The  day  was  stifling  hot,  and  the  men  on  the 
sloping  roofs  of  the  stockade  swore  fervently  as 
the  sweat  trickled  down  their  faces  and  into  their 
eyes.  Marshall  was  not  on  the  roof.  He  had 
ignored  Gillie's  orders,  and  the  clang  of  his 
hammer  as  he  bent  over  his  cannon  could  be 
heard  occasionally  between  the  bursts  of  firing. 


164  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Suddenly,  without  warning,  the  Californian  fire 
dwindled  down  to  a  few  scattering  shots,  and  then 
ceased.  From  the  north  end  of  the  plaza  came 
thundering  cheers — cheers  in  which  there  was  a 
joyous  note  of  triumph. 

Marshall,  dropping  his  hammer,  rushed  to  the 
west  gate,  climbed  upon  the  ledge,  and  craned  his 
neck  over  the  wall.  For  a  moment  he  stood  as 
rigid  as  a  statue. 

"There  you  are,  Gillie,"  he  roared,  jumping 
down  from  the  ledge  and  throwing  up  his  arms 
in  his  excitement.  "Come  here  and  see  that  gun 
I  told  you  about  two  weeks  ago,  and  you  would  n't 
believe  me.  There  it  is  now,  corning  down  the 
street. 

"Shoot,  you  fellows  up  there,  shoot!"  he 
yelled.  "For  God's  sake,  shoot!  Get  the  men 
around  that  gun!" 

"They  are  going  up  the  hill  with  it,"  shouted 
a  man  on  the  roof,  and  the  rifles  of  the  frontiers 
men  broke  out  in  a  scattering  volley.  But  it 
was  too  late;  both  men  and  cannon  had  already 
disappeared  beyond  the  church. 

Marshall  acted  like  one  possessed.  Placing 
a  file  in  the  vent  of  the  cannon,  he  rained  on  it 
thundering  blows  with  a  sledge,  his  face  red  and 
the  sweat  trickling  down  his  cheeks.  Suddenly 
the  file  gave  way  and  sank  half  its  length 
into  the  hollow  of  the  gun. 


THE  RACE  FOR  THE  HILLTOP    165 

"Through,  by  God!"  he  panted. 

"Here,  boys,  come  down  off  that  roof,"  he 
roared,  "and  empty  your  cartridges — quick, 
for  God's  sake!"  He  bit  the  end  of  a  paper 
cartridge  and  emptied  the  contents  into  his 
big  hat.  In  one  minute  the  hat  was  full,  the  gun 
loaded  and  rammed.  Gillie,  utterly  ignored  in 
the  excitement,  stood  fingering  his  lip  and  staring 
moodily  at  the  scene  of  feverish  activity. 

"Open  the  gate!"  Marshall  shouted  in  authori 
tative  tones.  "Quick,  now!  Who's  comin'  with 
me  to  the  top  of  the  hill?  They've  got  the 
start,  but  let  us  race  them  for  it.  Come  on, 
boys." 

With  a  glad  shout,  a  dozen  grasped  the  rawhide 
axle  ropes  and  dragged  the  reeling  gun  across  the 
street.  It  was  a  heavy,  clumsy  thing,  but  there 
were  twelve  strong  men  on  the  ropes,  and  up  the 
steep  east  slope  they  clambered,  now  falling  and 
slipping,  now  grasping  the  grass  roots  and  pro 
jecting  stones. 

Breathless  with  excitement  and  anxiety,  the 
men  in  the  stockade  watched  them.  It  was 
a  race  for  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  the  winner  of 
the  race  would  command  the  town.  For  if  the 
Californians,  now  clambering  up  the  hidden 
north  slope,  reached  the  top  first,  the  little 
garrison  at  the  stockade  would  be  at  their  mercy. 
Marshall  and  his  men  were  close  to  the  top  when 


1 66  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

the  gun,  toppling  over  and  on  its  side,  slipped 
downward,  and  a  groan  broke  from  the  anxious 
watchers  at  the  wall.  But  Marshall,  ever  in  the 
advance,  at  the  end  of  the  longest  riata,  quick  as 
lightning  snubbed  it  over  a  projecting  stone, 
holding  it  securely  till  again  the  gun  was  righted. 

"Cover  the  top  of  the  hill,"  ordered  Carroll, 
"and  fire  at  the  first  head  that  appears.  Do  not 
wait  for  orders.  Fire  on  sight." 

On  struggled  Marshall  and  his  men,  close  to  the 
top  now,  working  like  fiends.  At  last  the  gun 
rolled  easily  over  the  flat  space  on  the  summit 
of  the  hill.  Over  it  for  an  instant  bent  a  marine. 
Then,  with  a  roar,  it  spit  a  rolling  burst  of  white 
smoke,  shrouding  the  men  on  the  hill  in  billowing 
clouds. 

A  breathless  moment, — then,  as  the  smoke 
drifted  away,  the  men  around  the  old  field  piece 
threw  up  their  hats,  danced  like  maniacs,  and 
the  hills  reechoed  their  shouts  of  triumph. 

Marshall  had  won  the  race;  the  Americans  had 
captured  the  hill. 

The  single  shot  aimed  by  the  marine  had 
struck  the  enemy's  gun  fairly,  knocking  it  from  its 
carriage  and  tumbling  it  down  the  hill,  while  its 
defenders  rushed  madly  for  cover,  leaving  one 
of  their  number  dead  on  the  slope. 

At  the  west  wall  all  were  cheering  wildly — all 
except  Carroll.  He  did  not  hear  them.  His 


THE  RACE  FOR  THE  HILLTOP     167 

heart  was  heavy  within  him.     In  his  ears  were 
ringing  the  words  of  the  Indian  woman: 

"Blood  shall  smear  your  path.     Sad  and  long 
is  the  way,  and  filled  with  woe." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  MIDNIGHT   SORTIE 

CAPTAIN  GILLIE  was  sadly  shaken  by 
^-/  the  events  of  the  last  few  hours.  As  a 
subordinate,  carrying  out  the  clearly  defined 
orders  of  a  superior  officer,  his  conscientious 
attention  to  detail  would  have  brought  to  him 
a  large  measure  of  success.  But  in  an  environ 
ment  like  the  present,  where  quick  thought  and 
instantaneous  action  were  an  absolute  necessity, 
he  was  completely  at  sea.  For  the  first  time 
since  taking  command  of  the  garrison,  he  con 
sulted  with  his  officers,  Lieutenants  Carroll  and 
Somers,  as  to  the  best  course  to  follow.  The 
captain  was  considering  the  advisability  of  leaving 
the  stockade  and  joining  Marshall  on  the  hilltop, 
though  he  recognized  that  the  attempt  would 
be  attended  by  considerable  danger  and  possible 
loss  of  life. 

They  were  seated  at  the  table  in  the  captain's 
office,  Gillie  haggard  and  depressed,  Carroll  with 
something  of  the  old  happy  light  in  his  eyes  (he 
was  thinking  of  the  midnight  message),  Somers, 
as  ever,  somber  and  silent. 

"Since  you  wish  my  opinion,  captain,"  Carroll 
was  saying,  "I  am  certainly  in  favor  of  an 

1 68 


THE  MIDNIGHT  SORTIE  169 

immediate  retreat  to  the  hilltop.  One  determined 
rush,  and  it  can  be  done." 

As  Gillie  looked  at  Somers  inquiringly  the 
walls  of  the  room  creaked,  the  floor  shook,  and  a 
low,  dull  reverberation  as  of  a  distant  cannonade 
boomed  under  their  feet. 

"An  earthquake,"  observed  Gillie. 

Carroll  was  staring  in  amazement  at  Somers. 
The  second  lieutenant  was  ghastly  pale,  his  eyes 
wide  open  in  horror,  his  face  distorted  in  the  most 
abject  fear.  With  both  hands  he  clung  to  the 
edge  of  the  table,  as  though  to  save  himself  from 
falling. 

Again  the  room  creaked  and  the  ground  beneath 
them  quivered.  Somers,  trembling  in  every  limb, 
laid  his  head  on  his  crossed  arms  and  moaned 
piteously.  Carroll  stared  at  him  in  uncompre 
hending  wonder. 

As  if  with  an  effort,  the  second  lieutenant 
lifted  his  head,  rose  to  his  feet,  and  without  word 
or  sign,  walked  unsteadily  out  of  the  door. 

Carroll  met  the  captain's  gaze  questioningly. 
Could  it  be  that  Lieutenant  Somers  was  a  coward  ? 
Carroll  had  seen  men  under  fire,  and  facing  death 
in  various  forms.  He  knew  the  physical  signs 
of  fear,  and  if  ever  terror  had  been  written  on  a 
man's  countenance  it  had  shown  in  the  face  of 
Somers.  What  could  there  be  in  a  "temblor," 
common  enough  in  southern  California,  to 


170  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

bring  such  a  look  of  ashen  dread  to  the  cheeks 
of  a  man  and  a  soldier? 

But  Gillie  seemed  not  greatly  surprised.  "You 
must  not  misunderstand  Lieutenant  Somers," 
he  said.  "He  is  a  brave  man,  but  he  has  been 
through  one  terrible  earthquake.  It  always  affects 
him  so.  I  noticed  it  first  when  we  had  those 
two  slight  quakes  a  month  ago.  It  is  often  the 
case,  they  say,  with  many  who  have  seen  an 
earthquake  in  all  its  horror.  It  means  nothing, 
and  will  pass  in  a  few  minutes." 

Somers  reentered  the  room,  his  face  still  some 
what  pale  but  composed. 

"Pardon  me,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  in  his  usual 
calm  tones,  as  he  resumed  his  seat  at  the  table. 
"We  were  discussing  the  question  of  a  retreat  up 
the  hill.  I  am  heartily  in  favor  of  it." 

But  the  captain,  who  still  had  hopes  of  the 
return  of  Benito  Willard's  company,  believed  that 
they  would  arrive  during  the  course  of  the  day. 
His  suggestion  that  the  attempt  to  reach  the 
hilltop  be  deferred  until  night  was  adopted.  But 
the  hopes  of  Gillie  in  this  respect  were  to  be 
shattered  directly. 

"Gee  whilikens,  hear  them  yell,"  remarked  a 
marine  at  the  east  gate,  during  the  afternoon. 
"Wonder  if  the  greasers  found  another  can 
non?" 

From  down  the  street  leading  to  the  river  came 


THE   MIDNIGHT  SORTIE  171 

the  shrill  Calif ornian  yell,  loud  and  prolonged. 
At  Carroll's  orders  the  men  sprang  to  the  walls, 
their  pieces  loaded  and  primed.  A  large  detach 
ment  of  mounted  men  was  approaching,  the 
Mexican  flag  fluttering  at  their  head,  the  ends 
of  their  long,  upright  lances  resting  in  their 
stirrup  straps.  Boldly  they  rode  up  the  street, 
and  turning,  passed,  as  if  in  review,  before  the 
stockade  gate.  Carroll,  who  had  been  watching 
them  with  a  puzzled  frown  on  his  face,  for  their 
manner  was  anything  but  hostile,  suddenly 
called  out: 

"Ground  arms,  men!  Do  not  fire!  My  God! 
they  have  captured  Willard  and  his  men!" 

Surrounded  by  a  double  line  of  horsemen,  rode 
the  twenty  captured  members  of  the  militia 
company.  Matt  Harbin,  his  left  arm  in  a  sling, 
and  Benito  Willard,  a  blood-stained  rag  around 
his  head,  glanced  up  at  the  row  of  anxious  faces 
above  the  wall,  with  an  embarrassed  air.  As 
Willard  caught  sight  of  the  flag  waving  above  the 
stockade  his  dejected  face  brightened;  he  threw 
up  his  arm  in  an  appealing  gesture,  then  gravely 
saluted  the  colors. 

At  the  head  of  the  column,  on  a  gayly  capari 
soned  horse,  rode  Servolo  Palera,  his  head  erect, 
his  bearing  glad  and  triumphant.  But  even  as 
he  looked  up  into  the  faces  of  the  Americans  he 
smiled,  a  smile  in  which  there  was  none  of  the 


172  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

dark  maliciousness  that  set  some  of  his  men 
jeering  viciously  at  the  riflemen. 

"Your  turn  is  yet  to  come,  senores,"  cried  one, 
with  mock  politeness. 

"We  shall  invite  you  soon  to  join  your  friends," 
shouted  another  Calif  ornian — remarks  which 
Carroll  translated  for  the  Americans  who  could 
not  understand  Spanish. 

It  was  Flores  who  had  ordered  the  bold  and 
spectacular  parade  past  the  stockade,  knowing 
full  well  that  the  garrison  would  not  fire,  as  there 
would  be  grave  danger  of  wounding  the  prisoners, 
and  hoping  that  the  moral  effect  of  the  capture 
would  bring  about  a  surrender. 

The  commandant  was  a  Mexican,  not  a  Cali- 
f ornian,  and  his  knowledge  of  Americans  was 
slight  indeed.  They  were  as  much  without  fear 
as  they  were  without  malice.  To  the  men  in 
the  stockade,  confident  of  the  ultimate  triumph 
of  the  United  States,  the  struggle  was  nothing 
more  than  a  game,  a  modification  of  the  game 
that  they  had  been  playing  for  years,  with  other 
antagonists, —  hunger,  cold,  thirst,  and  savage 
Indians.  If  by  some  strange  turn  of  events 
peace  had  come  instantly,  they  would  have  been 
willing  to  share  their  last  crust,  and  their  last 
coin,  if  it  were  needed,  with  their  former  enemies. 
But  while  the  game  lasted  they  were  playing  it 
good-humoredly,  but  with  all  the  intensity  and 


THE   MIDNIGHT  SORTIE  173 

pertinacity  of  the  Anglo-Saxon,  and  they  would 
play  it  to  the  end  as  long  as  a  shred  of  hope 
remained.  The  cavalcade  disappeared  in  silence 
toward  the  Californian  headquarters. 

Quickly  the  preparations  for  leaving  the  stock 
ade  went  on,  during  the  afternoon.  The  ammuni 
tion  and  provisions  were  gathered  into  compact 
bundles  and  cinched  on  the  backs  of  the  horses. 
The  remaining  gun,  though  still  unspiked,  was 
taken  from  its  rude  carriage '  and  lashed  to  the 
crosstrees  of  a  pack  saddle. 

Carroll,  glancing  curiously  at  Lieutenant  Somers, 
who  stood  close  to  him  watching  the  scene  of 
bustling  activity,  noted  the  deepened  melancholy 
of  the  man's  face.  Intuitively  he  felt  that  he 
was  in  the  presence  of  a  sorrow  such  as  few  men 
ever  know,  and  his  sympathetic  heart  went  out 
to  his  sad-faced  comrade.  With  this  thought  in 
his  mind  he  said  quietly: 

"That  quake  seemed  to  startle  you,  lieutenant." 

"Yes." 

Though  neither  rude  nor  resentful,  there  was 
yet  that  in  the  single  spoken  word  that  made 
further  reference  to  the  occurrence  impossible. 

At  midnight  Carroll  reported  to  the  captain 
that  everything  was  ready  for  the  sortie.  Instruc 
tions  were  given  to  ride  down  the  street  silently, 
and  in  case  of  attack  to  rush  to  the  foot  of  the 
ascent  and  climb  the  hill  as  rapidly  as  possible. 

12 


174  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

The  horses  loaded  with  the  supplies  were  placed 
in  the  center,  under  charge  of  Somers;  Gillie 
himself  took  charge  of  the  van,  while  Carroll 
brought  up  the  rear. 

Over  the  yellow  sand  of  the  street,  the  glaring 
white  of  the  adobe  walls,  and  the  inky  shadows 
there  brooded  a  heavy  and  oppressive  silence  as 
the  creaking  gates  swung  open.  The  column  of 
horsemen,  marching  out  six  abreast,  turned  slowly 
into  the  moonlit  street,  and  walked  quietly  past 
the  dark  verandas  toward  the  foot  of  the  slope. 
Not  a  sound  could  be  heard  but  the  soft  putter 
of  hoofs  in  the  sand,  the  creak  of  saddles,  and 
the  excited  breathing  of  the  men.  Already  the 
heavily  loaded  horses  in  the  center  of  the  group 
had  reached  the  slope,  and  were  climbing  upward, 
the  stones  trickling  from  their  scrambling  feet 
down  into  the  roadway.  It  seemed  as  though  the 
short  journey  was  to  be  made  without  interruption. 

But  suddenly  guns  bellowed  up  and  down  the 
street,  bullets  hissed  above  their  heads,  and  a 
wild  whirl  of  mounted  men  was  upon  them. 

"Go  on,  boys!"  shouted  Carroll.  "We  will 
hold  them."  With  three  mounted  frontiersmen 
on  either  side,  he  turned  to  meet  the  charge. 
Suddenly  his  horse,  a  lance  point  in  its  throat, 
reared  and  screamed  in  agony,  and  Carroll  fired 
his  pistol  at  the  mounted  man  before  him.  Then 
his  horse  went  down,  and  he  scrambled  to  his  feet, 


THE   MIDNIGHT  SORTIE  175 

saber  in  hand,  to  find  himself  staring  up  into  the 
eyes  of  Don  Jose  Antonio. 

"Surrender,  Senor  Carroll,"  said  Arillo  as  their 
swords  crossed.  "I  would  not  willingly  harm 
you." 

So  kind,  so  gentle,  so  just  was  the  voice,  that 
for  a  moment  Carroll  was  disarmed  of  hostile 
thought. 

Then  a  million1  bright  stars  flashed  before  him; 
the  huddled  press  of  struggling  men  and  plunging 
horses  faded  into  darkness.  A  strange  sound  like 
the  song  of  a  distant  river  hummed  in  his  ears,  and 
he  felt  himself  sinking,  falling,  through  endless 
realms  of  black  midnight  space. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  FAITH  OF  SERVOLO  PALERA 

A  BIRD  was  singing  in  the  tree  overhead. 
^*  Carroll  opened  his  eyes,  and  stared  at  the 
gently  swaying  leaves  above  him.  Somewhere 
close  at  hand  was  the  sound  of  voices  and  the  lisp 
of  moving  water.  Gray  were  the  ridges  with  the 
passing  of  early  dawn,  as  a  creeping  radiance 
whitened  the  eastern  sky.  From  where  he  lay, 
his  head  pillowed  on  a  folded  serape,  he  could 
see  a  line  of  men  sprawling  along  the  river  bank, 
and  farther  away  several  mounted  Californians 
under  the  white  limbs  of  a  crooked  sycamore. 
He  raised  his  head,  but  a  sharp  stab  of  pain  shot 
through  his  shoulders,  a  deadly  nausea  gripped 
him,  and  he  sank  back  with  a  moan. 

' '  Feeling  better,  lieutenant  ? ' ' 

He  raised  his  pain-wrenched  eyelids  to  look 
into  the  face  of  Benito  Willard. 

"Here,  take  a  sip  of  this."  Willard  passed  his 
arm  about  Carroll's  shoulders,  and,  raising  him 
to  a  sitting  position,  pressed  a  flask  of  wine  to  his 
lips. 

"What  happened?"  inquired  Carroll,  groping  in 
his  memory  for  the  events  of  the  night.  "Did 
they  get  up?" 

176 


THE  FAITH  OF  SERVOLO  PALERA     177 

"Yes,  they  got  up  all  right;  but  they  lost  most 
of  their  provisions.  Flores  thinks  they  will  have 
to  surrender  soon.  Jiminy,  but  that  was  a  wal 
lop  you  got!  Let  me  look  at  that  head." 

Carroll  raised  his  hand  to  his  brow  and  touched 
a  mass  of  blood-clotted  hair.  His  head  was  still 
throbbing  furiously,  but  the  nausea  was  gone, 
and  with  the  red  wine  flooding  his  veins  he  felt 
a  quick  accession  of  returning  strength. 

From  the  adobe  to  the  left  came  Indian  women, 
bearing  baskets  filled  with  food  for  the  prisoners. 
Fires  had  already  been  lighted,  and  the  appetizing 
odor  of  boiling  coffee  floated  on  the  morning  air. 

"How  did  they  get  you,  captain?"  asked 
Carroll. 

"Caught  us  at  the  Chino  Rancho.  When  we 
got  to  my  ranch  and  found  that  it  was  all  moon 
shine  about  Castro  being  in  the  Cucamonga 
Canon — he  had  sure  enough  gone  to  Sonora — we 
decided  to  go  to  the  mountains  and  hunt  bear  for 
a  while.  Then  one  day  along  comes  John  Rowland 
and  Dave  Alexander  from  the  pueblo,  with  the 
news  that  there  was  the  very  devil  to  pay.  Con- 
sarn  that  blame  fool  Gillie !  It 's  all  his  fault. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "we  all  marched  to 
Chino,  hoping  to  get  a  new  supply  of  powder  there, 
for  we  had  used  nearly  all  of  ours  on  the  bears. 
In  the  morning  Servolo  Palera  and  his  men  had 
surrounded  us,  and  pretty  soon  they  made  a 


178  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

charge  on  the  adobes  where  we  were.  We  gave 
them  a  volley — knocked  one  young  fellow — 
Ballestos  was  his  name — out  of  his  saddle, 
dead  as  a  door  nail.  Too  blamed  bad,  too; 
he  was  a  nice  young  chap.  That's  his  twin 
brother  over  there  on  the  big  bay  horse  by  the 
sycamore.  Pretty  soon  I  saw  it  was  no  use. 
Our  powder  was  all  but  gone,  and  they  had  set 
fire  to  the  roof;  so  it  was  either  burn  or  give  up. 
So  when  Servolo  Palera  came  to  the  door  and 
gave  me  his  word  that  we  would  not  be  harmed, 
but  would  be  treated  as  prisoners  of  war,  we 
came  out  and  gave  up  our  guns.  Don  Servolo 's 
all  right;  he'll  keep  his  word.  Damn  Gillie, 
anyway;  he's  a  fool.  I'll  bet  Flores  has  robbed 
my  store  in  the  city  by  this  time." 

Willard  helped  himself  liberally  to  the  frijoles 
that  one  of  the  Indian  women  placed  before  him, 
and  then  added,  "I  wish  the  darn  fuss  was  over. 
It  can  have  but  one  end,  anyway.  Why,  there's 
my  wife!"  he  cried,  as  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

Two  women  were  hurrying  out  of  the  peach 
orchard  toward  the  river,  and  Willard  and  Harbin 
stepped  forward  to  meet  them.  In  their  arms 
they  carried  bundles  of  clothing  for  their  husbands. 
Though  their  dark  faces  were  troubled,  they  bore 
up,  with  a  brave  attempt  at  carelessness. 

Carroll  was  listening  idly  to  the  badly  accented 
Spanish  of  the  two  Americans  as  they  assured 


THE  FAITH  OF  SERVOLO  PALERA     179 

their  wives  that  there  was  no  danger,  and  they 
would  doubtless  be  released  on  parole  in  a  few 
days,  when  a  footfall  behind  him  caused  him  to 
start.  Painfully  he  turned  his  head,  and  looked 
into  the  eyes  of  Loreto  Arillo. 

For  a  moment  the  girl  gazed  at  him  in  dumb 
agony,  at  his  unshorn  and  haggard  face,  his 
soiled  and  bedraggled  uniform,  the  streak  of 
clotted  blood  on  his  brow. 

"Jose  told  me,  but  now,"  she  panted,  "and 
I  came.  Mother  does  not  know.  Oh,  Juan, 
Juan,"  she  moaned,  "they  have  hurt  thee." 

The  lieutenant  had  risen  shakily  to  his  feet, 
tumultuous  gladness  surging  through  his  soul. 
Ignoring  all  conventionalities,  defying  every 
tradition  of  her  race  and  her  training,  obedient 
only  to  the  call  of  her  heart,  she  had  come  to  him. 
He  forgot  the  war,  forgot  his  wound,  forgot 
everything  save  the  joy  that  flooded  his  soul  at 
this  conclusive  evidence  of  her  constancy.  In 
trance-like  ecstasy  he  threw  his  arms  about  her, 
and  drew  her  to  him,  murmuring,  "You  came 
to  me!  You  came — to  me!" 

For  the  first  time  his  lips  met  hers  in  a  long, 
passionate  pressure.  Then  her  head  sank  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Ah,  Juan,  Juan,  I  fear  it  can  never  be,"  she 
sobbed.  "Father  himself  has  said  so." 

For    only   this    morning,    Don    Jose   Antonio, 


i8o  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

returning  from  the  deathbed  of  one  of  his  dearest 
friends,  shot  down  during  the  skirmish  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  had  said,  sadly  but  firmly,  in  answer 
to  the  unspoken  question  in  her  eyes,  "No, 
child,  no;  it  must  not  be.  Set  thy  mind  to  forget 
him;  there  is  now  too  much  blood  between  our 
peoples." 

The  Don  knew  nothing  of  Carroll's  capture. 
Engaged  in  the  effort  to  save  his  wounded  friend, 
he  had  lost  sight  of  Carroll  in  the  melee.  The 
attacking  party,  broken  in  two  by  a  volley  and  a 
counter-charge  from  the  Americans,  and  satisfied 
with  their  capture  of  several  of  the  provision-laden 
horses,  had  galloped  away — Arillo  and  his  men 
northward  toward  the  plaza,  while  the  remainder, 
bearing  with  them  the  unconscious  form  of 
Carroll,  had  ridden  down  the  street  in  the  opposite 
direction.  Vanuela  had  ordered  Carroll  placed 
with  the  other  prisoners,  and  had  not  seen  fit  to 
notify  Arillo  of  his  capture. 

Bitter,  too,  was  the  feeling  among  the  Cali- 
fornians  at  Gillie's  stubborn  resistance,  a  resistance 
that,  under  the  circumstances,  they  could  neither 
understand  nor  appreciate.  To  them  it  seemed 
but  stupid  obstinacy,  and  a  reckless  disregard 
for  human  life.  Equally  bitter  was  the  animosity 
toward  Willard  and  his  men  for  having  taken 
up  arms  against  the  land  that,  for  many  years, 
had  given  them  a  home  and  a  welcome.  The 


THE  FAITH  OF  SERVOLO  PALERA    181 

Californians  were  resolved  that  if  the  revolution 
was  triumphant  never  again  would  an  American  be 
allowed  to  reside  in  the  country.  Arillo  himself 
realized  the  justice  of  the  decision,  but  he  was  also 
aware  that  if,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Americans 
were  victorious  they  would  possibly  deal  harshly 
with  the  men  who  had  broken  their  paroles. 
Reluctantly,  he  had  been  driven  to  the  conclusion 
that,  in  any  event,  there  was  but  grief  and  bitter 
ness  in  store  for  his  daughter,  and  that  it  was 
his  plain  duty  to  withdraw  his  consent  to  the 
engagement. 

At  the  girl's  unexpected  words,  at  the  sight 
of  her  face  dark  with  sorrow,  Carroll's  heart  sank 
within  him.  Again  his  head  throbbed,  and  the 
sickening  nausea  swept  over  him. 

"Loreto,  Loreto,"  he  moaned,  "I  cannot,  I 
will  not  give  thee  up.  Is  there  no  hope?" 

"I  love  thee,  Juan.  Come  what  may,  I  shall 
always  love  thee,  I  can  never  love  another. 
But  everything  and  every  one  is  against  us." 
She  wrung  her  hands  miserably,  while  the  tears 
streamed  down  her  face. 

Carroll,  racked  with  mental  and  physical  agony, 
was  reeling  slightly,  but  he  held  himself  erect  with 
a  mighty  effort. 

"But,  Loreto — after  the  war  is  over — I  will 
come — " 

"No,  no,  Jack."     There  was  utter  hopelessness 


182  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

in  her  voice.  "No  more  will  Americans  be 
allowed  in  the  land.  But,  if  thou  canst  come,  I 
will  go  with  thee,  anywhere." 

A  sharp  command  from  the  horsemen  under 
the  trees,  and  Willard  and  Harbin  released  them 
selves  from  the  arms  of  their  wives.  Loreto 
stood  for  a  moment,  sobbing  silently,  then  she 
threw  her  arms  around  Carroll's  neck  and  kissed 
him  frantically. 

"Farewell,  Juan,  my  love.  Farewell — perhaps 
for  the  last  time.  God  bless  and  protect  thee. 
We  may  never  meet  again." 

"We  shall,"  protested  Carroll  with  pale  lips, 
lips  on  which  there  was  something  akin  to  a  grim 
smile.  "Fear  not,  dearest,  I  will  come,  I  will 
come  for  thee." 

Little  he  dreamed  in  what  guise  he  would  come 
again  to  Loreto  Arillo. 

As  she  turned  away,  Senora  Willard  took  the 
heart-broken  girl  in  her  arms,  and  the  tears  of 
the  women  mingled.  Carroll  stood  speechless. 
Around  him  the  trees,  the  hills,  the  sky  were 
whirling  wildly. 

As  the  prisoners,  shepherded  by  the  grim-faced 
horsemen,  waded  the  shallow  stream,  the  lieuten 
ant  paused  to  look  back  at  the  motionless  figures 
of  the  three  grieving  women.  Ballestos,  who 
was  riding  close  to  him,  brought  his  long  lance 
down  heavily  across  the  lieutenant's  shoulders 
and  snapped: 


THE  FAITH  OF  SERVOLO  PALERA    183 

"Keep  in  line  there,  and  face  to  the  front." 

Carroll  was  still  weak  and  shaky,  and  the 
stiff  blow  set  his  neck  muscles  aching  in  agony. 
Harbin,  close  to  him,  muttered  a  curse;  then, 
noting  his  uncertain  steps  and  paling  face,  he 
took  his  arm. 

MacNamara,  riding  at  the  rear  of  the  line, 
had  seen  the  blow,  but  gave  no  sign.  His  dark 
face  was  heavy  with  troubled  thought,  and  his 
fingers  groped  in  the  depths  of  his  beard.  There 
was  cause  for  his  uneasiness.  Though  on  the 
surface,  enthusiasm  ran  high,  the  secret  agent 
had  good  reason  for  suspecting  that  many  of  the 
older  men,  better  informed  than  the  rank  and 
file  of  the  immense  military  strength  of  the 
United  States,  were  at  heart  doubtful  of  the 
success  of  the  revolt.  He  was  beginning  to 
suspect  that  they  saw  in  it  but  a  means  to  force 
from  the  Americans  honorable  terms  of  capitu 
lation,  if  an  overwhelming  force  should  come 
upon  them  out  of  the  east. 

Though  Flores  and  most  of  the  army  were 
earnest  and  enthusiastic,  he  sensed  great  danger 
in  the  lack  of  enthusiasm  noticeable  in  Arillo, 
Alvaro,  Garfias,  and  Cota.  True,  they  were 
all  taking  an  active  and  efficient  part  in  the 
present  military  operations,  and  would  be  willing 
to  fight  against  the  invaders  when  they  appeared, 
but  he  suspected  it  would  be  only  for  the  purpose 


i84  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

of  salving  their  injured  dignity,  and  forcing 
forgiveness  for  the  broken  paroles,  and  not  with 
any  hope  of  ultimate  victory. 

Eugene  MacNamara  was  a  man  of  one  idea — 
the  glory  and  prestige  of  the  British  Empire. 
His  command  of  Castilian  was  such  that  none  in 
the  pueblo  dreamed  he  was  aught  but  the  Spaniard 
he  claimed  to  be,  while  his  military  bearing 
confirmed  the  rumor  that  he  had  seen  service  in 
the  old  land.  His  Irish  name  was  but  an  acci 
dental  legacy  from  some  forgotten  ancestor,  who 
had  bequeathed  to  him  naught  else  but  a  certain 
quickness  of  thought  and  keenness  of  perception. 
Apart  from  these  Celtic  attributes,  the  man  was 
English  in  heart  and  soul.  Something,  he  was 
thinking,  would  have  to  be  done  to  make  the 
chasm  between  the  genie  de  razon  and  the 
Americans  so  impassable  that  no  reconciliation 
would  be  possible.  Now  was  the  time,  while 
the  tide  of  anger  was  flooding  high  in  the  hearts 
of  the  Californians. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  heavy  lance  of 
Ballestos  fell  across  the  shoulders  of  Carroll, 
and  the  Englishman  noted  the  Calif ornian's  fiery 
eye  and  heard  his  muttered  oath. 

His  countenance  settled  into  an  expression  of 
grim  hardness;  he  urged  his  horse  forward,  until 
he  rode  side  by  side  with  Ballestos.  Leaning 
in  his  saddle,  he  whispered  long  and  earnestly. 


THE  FAITH  OF  SERVOLO  PALERA    185 

The  line  of  prisoners  trailed  snake-like  over 
the  long  brown  rise  beyond  the  river.  As  they 
swung  to  the  south,  through  a  hollow,  Willard, 
who  had  been  glancing  back  suspiciously  at  the 
two,  heard  MacNamara's  cold  voice:  "Once  done, 
Ballestos,  it  would  soon  be  forgotten  and  forgiven." 

The  Californian,  a  baleful  light  in  his  face, 
nodded,  and  smiled  a  cruel  little  smile  that  showed 
his  sharp  white  teeth. 

"Halt!" 

MacNamara  walked  his  horse  over  to  the 
guards,  and  gave  some  whispered  orders.  They 
slipped  from  their  steeds,  and  carefully  primed 
their  escopetas. 

"My  God,"  gasped  Willard,  whose  quick  eye 
had  noted  the  preparations,  "they  are  going  to 
shoot  us!" 

' '  You  will  have  just  ten  minutes  to  pray  and  to 
write  any  messages  you  may  wish  to  send  your 
friends ;  I  promise  you  that  they  shall  be  delivered. 
And  then — the  execution  will  take  place.  "Mac 
Namara  drew  a  notebook  from  his  clothes,  tore 
out  a  handful  of  leaves,  and  handed  them  to 
one  of  the  guards,  who  distributed  them  to  the 
horror-striken  men. 

"You  bloodthirsty  dogs,"  roared  Harbin,  "you 
will  all  swing  for  this  when  Stockton  comes  back!" 

Carroll  knew  warfare.  He  had  seen  its  horrors 
in  Cuba.  He  knew  that  the  anger  and  resentment 


186  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

following  a  day's  engagement  often  led  to  indis 
cretions,  regretted  on  the  morrow.  He  understood 
the  revenge  of  Ballestos.  Though  all  California 
might  repudiate  the  slaughter  after  it  was  over, 
nothing  would  then  alter  the  grim  fact. 

Men  look  death  in  the  face  with  varying 
demeanors.  He  noted  almost  idly  that  one  man, 
whose  hardihood  and  bravery  he  knew  full  well, 
had  collapsed  with  mental  and  physical  fear. 
Another  great,  overgrown  boy  was  protesting 
with  theatrical  fervor  that  he  "would  die  like  a 
man."  Of  one  thing  he  was  sure;  he  would  not 
die  without  some  effort  to  forestall  the  end. 
Life,  in  spite  of  its  vicissitudes,  was  still  very 
sweet.  He  looked  at  the  line  of  doomed  men, 
most  of  whom  were  dumb  with  horror.  They 
stood  silent,  some  idly  folding  the  papers,  some 
writing  in  feverish  haste. 

The  fixed  features  of  MacNamara,  he  observed, 
were  intently  bent  on  him;  for  the  Englishman 
was  a  judge  of  men,  and  he  feared  that  Carroll 
would  be  the  one  to  prevent  the  execution,  if 
such  a  thing  were  at  all  possible. 

When  Carroll's  note  was  written  the  secret 
agent  reached  for  it,  but  Ballestos  intercepted 
it. 

1 '  Pardon  me,  Senor  Almagro,"  he  said  haughtily, 
"this  note  is  addressed  to  me." 

MacNamara  frowned;  then  smiled. 


THE  FAITH  OF  SERVOLO  PALERA    187 

Ballestos  paled  when  he  read  it,  and  held  it 
clenched,  while  his  eyes  went  to  the  ground. 
MacNamara  was  anxious  and  impatient. 

"We  waste  time,"  he  complained.  "Give  the 
command." 

But  Ballestos,  ever  a  vacillating  man,  was 
perplexed  and  alarmed.  Vengeful  though  he  was, 
he  was  in  a  sense  just.  The  Americans  had 
taken  his  brother's  life;  they  must  give  theirs  in 
return.  But  here  was  one  feature  he  had  failed 
to  realize,  for  Carroll's  note  read: 

"If  you  murder  me  without  giving  me  the 
services  of  a  priest,  my  soul  will  haunt  you  through 
life  until  death,  and  thereafter  will  pursue  you 
throughout  the  borders  of  hell.  In  the  name  of 
our  common  faith,  I  demand  a  priest." 

Ballestos  was  astounded  to  find  the  American 
officer  a  Catholic.  Aside  from  that,  his  super 
stitious  soul  thrilled  with  fear  at  the  thought  that 
the  man,  though  dead,  might  fulfill  his  terrible 
threat.  Glancing  toward  Carroll,  he  noted  that 
the  lieutenant  had  sunk  to  his  knees,  and  was 
crossing  himself. 

Without  a  word,  he  handed  the  note  to  Mac 
Namara. 

' '  Stuff ! ' '  declared  MacNamara.  ' '  Let  the  exe 
cution  proceed." 

But  Ballestos  objected.  He  asked  if  there 
was  not  some  way  to  comply  with  the  American's 


i88  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

request?  Priests  were  plentiful,  but  there  were 
none  to  be  had  at  the  present  moment.  Perhaps, 
in  twenty  minutes,  one  could  be  brought  from 
the  main  command,  farther  down  the  river.  It 
would  be  better;  the  men  must  die,  but  it  would 
be  quite  as  effective  to  hold  off  the  execution  for 
half  an  hour;  Carroll's  request  was  surely  within 
his  rights. 

So  he  reasoned  while  MacNamara  fumed. 
Moments  slipped  away.  Carroll  watched  the 
parley,  grimly  determined  that,  while  he  would 
line  up  ostensibly  to  be  shot,  he  would  make  a 
fight  for  his  life.  When  the  men  faced  the 
muskets,  he  determined  to  drop  beneath  the 
bullets'  level  and,  rushing  into  the  firing  squad, 
throw  confusion  into  the  executioners.  Probably 
he  would  be  shot  or  beaten  to  death,  but  he  would 
make  a  fight  for  it.  Already  he  had  accomplished 
something.  Had  he  not  written  the  note  and 
caused  the  delay,  twenty-six  bleeding  corpses 
would  now  be  lying  on  the  ground.  He  presumed 
they  would  not  tie  his  hands.  With  the  little  case 
knife  concealed  within  his  shirt,  he  would  stab 
and  stab  and  stab,  until  the  darkness  of  death 
ended  everything.  He  proposed  to  die  like  an 
American  and  a  soldier,  and  perhaps — perhaps— 
after  all,  there  was  some  hope.  He  might  escape. 
The  horses  were  standing  with  drooping  reins 
close  at  hand.  A  quick  dash,  and  once  in  a 


THE  FAITH  OF  SERVOLO  PALERA     189 

saddle  he  would  have  a  fair  chance  for  life  and 
liberty. 

Fear  came  to  him  only  when  he  thought  of 
Loreto  Arillo,  for  within  his  heart  of  hearts  he 
had  refused  to  accept  her  hopeless  view.  And 
now,  with  the  sweet  assurance  of  her  constancy 
still  ringing  in  his  ears,  the  chalice  of  happiness 
was  to  be  shattered  at  his  lips.  The  basest 
coward  never  feared  death  more  than  he  did  now, 
all  because  of  her.  Never  before  in  all  his  existence 
had  his  appreciation  of  the  sweets  of  life  been  so 
keen  as  in  the  brief  period  since  he  had  known  her 
love,  and  suffered  the  estrangement. 

His  mind  was  playing  him  queer  pranks,  for, 
simultaneously  with  his  thoughts  of  her,  he 
was  noting  the  peculiar  quality  of  leather  in  a 
saddle  lying  on  the  ground  near  by.  The  gro- 
tesqueness  of  it  struck  him,  and  he  smiled.  Now 
his  mind  flew  backward  to  the  trivial  incidents 
of  his  boyhood  days. 

The  other  men  had  begun  to  nerve  themselves 
for  the  ordeal.  Beyond  the  blue  hills,  ranged  in 
peaceful  symmetry,  the  arching  azure  sky  gave 
no  sign ;  the  perfume  of  the  flowers  proclaimed  the 
sweetness  of  life.  Carroll  had  passed  a  locket, 
containing  his  mother's  daguerrotype,  to  a  Cali- 
fornian,  to  deliver  to  Loreto.  The  note  wrapped 
about  it  said:  "Dying,  my  heart  is  thine." 

The  parley  between  MacNamara  and  Ballestos 

13 


igo  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

still  continued,  the  Englishman  insistent,  scorn 
ful,  the  other  troubled  and  hesitating. 

"Your  brother  went  to  meet  his  God  unshriven. 
Will  you  do  more  for  these,  his  murderers?" 
MacNamara  sneered. 

Ballestos  forgot  his  superstitious  fears,  his 
religious  scruples.  He  remembered  only  his  twin 
brother,  shot  out  of  his  saddle  at  Chino  by  the 
very  men  now  before  him.  He  ground  his  teeth, 
and  threw  his  hand  upward  in  a  motion  of  assent. 

The  doomed  men  were  ranged  in  line  in  front 
of  the  Californians,  who  stood  with  the  butts  of 
their  escopetas  on  the  ground,  scarce  ten  feet  away. 
The  firing  squad  gazed  curiously  at  the  men  about 
to  die.  They  were  impatient,  for  Carroll's  note 
had  caused  nearly  half  an  hour's  delay.  The 
lieutenant's  head  was  throbbing  again,  but  he 
rallied  his  strength  to  stand  erect,  noting  carefully 
the  man  who  was  to  send  him  to  death.  His 
hands  were  not  tied,  and  he  determined  to  find 
the  rifleman's  heart  with  his  knife  at  the  first 
encounter.  After  that  he  would  cut  right  and 
left,  till  the  daylight  vanished. 

MacNamara's  sharp  eye  observed  him  fumbling 
in  his  jacket. 

"Search  that  man,"  he  ordered. 

Two  Californians  sprang  upon  Carroll.  As 
he  resisted  feebly,  the  knife  dropped  to  the 
ground  and  was  picked  up  by  one  of  the  guards. 


THE  FAITH  OF  SERVOLO  PALERA     191 

He  felt  himself  being  rudely  pushed  into  line. 
Though  the  last  hope  seemed  gone,  yet  never 
would  he  die  like  a  felled  ox.  He  would  rush  below 
the  level  of  the  bullets'  fire,  wrench  a  musket 
from  a  Californian,  and  fight  it  out. 

"Ready!"  The  guns  were  lifted  from  the 
ground. 

"Present!"  He  looked  down  a  glistening  gun 
barrel. 

Carroll's  arms  were  bent,  his  muscles  taut, 
his  fists  clenched;  his  bloodshot  eyes  watching 
the  bearded  face  of  MacNamara,  he  awaited  the 
signal  word.  He  was  crouching  for  a  low  spring 
at  the  man  before  him,  when  again  the  weakening 
nausea  swept  over  him.  In  spite  of  himself,  his 
muscles  relaxed  and  his  eyes  closed;  again  the 
universe  rocked  about  him. 

A  rush  of  hoofs,  a  dark  mass  between  him  and 
the  sky,  a  clatter  of  steel  on  gun  barrels,  and 
the  lieutenant  half  opened  his  eyes  to  see  Servolo 
Palera,  sword  in  hand,  striking  down  the  escopetas, 
his  face  white  with  rage,  his  quivering  lips  gasping 
execrations. 

"Down  with  your  guns!"  he  roared.  "By 
the  God  who  made  me,  I  will  run  my  sword  through 
the  first  man  who  dares  to  disobey!  I  gave 
my  word  at  Chino,"  he  added,  breathless  in  his 
indignation.  "I,  Servolo  Palera,  gave  my  word, 
as  a  man  and  a  Christian,  that  these  men  should 


THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

not  be  injured.  And  not  one  hair  of  their  heads 
shall  be  harmed  while  a  drop  of  blood  flows  in 
my  veins." 

Swinging  his  horse  about  to  face  MacNamara 
and  Ballestos,  "Sangre  de  Cristo!"  he  panted. 
"You  son  of  the  devil,  Almagro,  you  would 
have  done  murder,  and  you,  Ballestos,  when 
I  heard  you  were  in  charge  of  the  prisoners,  I 
feared  the  worst — you  two  are  no  Christian  gen 
tlemen,  but  heathen  Goths.  I  saw  the  signs  of 
your  deviltry  from  yonder  hill;  had  my  horse 
not  been  a  fleet  one,  these  men  would  now  be 
dead." 

The  men  stood  silent,  awed  by  the  nearness  of 
the  death  they  had  escaped.  Willard  alone  was 
grinning  maliciously. 

"You  wait,  you  little  skunk,"  he  sneered  at 
Ballestos,  "I'll  get  you  for  this  somehow,  some 
where.  See  if  I  don't." 

For  Carroll  the  strain  had  been  too  great. 
With  all  the  strength  of  which  his  pain-racked 
body  was  capable,  he  had  keyed  himself  to  meet 
death  fighting.  Then  had  come  the  shock  of 
utter  relief.  As  the  landscape  faded  from  his 
sight,  he  swayed,  tottered,  and  fell  forward  on 
his  face. 

Palera,  at  the  sound,  swung  his  horse  around, 
and  stared  down  curiously  at  the  unconscious 
figure  on  the  ground. 


THE  FAITH  OF  SERVOLO  PALERA    193 

"Who  is  he?"  he  inquired,  as  he  noted  his 
uniform. 

"Lieutenant  Carroll  of  Gillie's  command,  cap 
tured  at  the  hill  last  night,"  responded  Willard. 

"Ah!"  There  was  a  strange  note  of  interest 
and  sympathy  in  Servolo's  voice,  that  caused 
Willard  to  glance  at  him  curiously. 

By  the  orders  of  Palera,  a  litter  was  made 
from  some  saplings  growing  in  the  hollow,  and 
the  prisoners  only  too  gladly  carried  the  uncon 
scious  man  over  the  hills  to  the  south. 

MacNamara  and  Ballestos,  who  at  the  com 
mand  of  Servolo  had  given  up  their  swords,  were 
sent  under  arrest  to  report  to  Commandant  Flores 
at  headquarters,  beyond  the  Paredon  Bluff. 

As  the  silent  procession  wound  through  the 
hollows  to  the  south,  Palera,  riding  always  beside 
the  litter,  gazed  down  at  Carroll's  white  face. 

"Thou,"  he  mused,  "art  the  man  who  hast 
blighted  my  life,  yet  for  thee  I  would  die,  if  need 
be — that  the  eyes  of  Loreto  Arillo  might  know 
no  tears.  Ah,  could  I  but  exchange  places  with 
thee,  even  as  thou  art — sick,  wounded,  a  prisoner 
in  thine  enemies'  hands.  Would  that  I  were 
thou!  Would  that  I  were  thou!" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   SNARL   OF   THE   WOLF 

an  adobe  in  the  deep  gulch  behind  the 
Paredon  Bluff,  Palera  led  the  prisoners. 
Hardly  had  they  arrived  when  a  messenger,  riding 
hurriedly,  summoned  Servolo  to  headquarters. 
In  spite  of  the  pleading  protests  of  the  Americans, 
he  obeyed  the  order,  assuring  them  that  they 
had  nothing  further  to  fear,  and  that  he  would 
return  as  soon  as  possible.  Bereft  of  his  protecting 
presence,  the  fear  of  the  prisoners  grew.  Would 
his  influence  prevail  against  that  of  Almagro  (as 
the  Englishman  was  known  to  the  Californians) 
and  the  vengeful  Ballestos,  or  would  a  few  hours 
later  see  the  attempt  of  the  morning  carried  to  a 
bloody  conclusion?  There  was  not  a  man  but 
dreaded  what  the  day  might  bring  forth.  Many 
of  them  were  already  planning  resistance. 

The  building  was  bare  of  comforts;  there  were 
neither  beds  nor  blankets;  the  wounds  of  the 
injured  had  not  been  dressed  since  their  arrival 
from  Chino,  two  days  before.  Carroll  lay  on  the 
naked  earthen  floor,  breathing  heavily ;  the  kindly 
attempts  of  Willard  and  Harbin  to  revive  him 
had  proved  ineffectual.  As  the  sun  climbed  noon- 
high,  there  was  no  sign  of  preparation  for  the 
midday  meal. 

194 


THE  SNARL  OF  THE  WOLF        195 

Suddenly  the  door  was  darkened  by  the  black- 
robed  figure  of  a  priest.  As  he  entered,  he  drew 
his  crucifix  from  his  sash,  and  held  it  up  meaningly. 

"Do  any  of  you  wish  to  confess?"  he  inquired. 

In  the  tense  silence  that  followed  his  words,  the 
faces  of  the  prisoners  paled.  His  question  seemed 
to  bear  horrible  significance. 

"Mon  Dieu,"  groaned  a  Frenchman,  Roubidoux 
by  name,  "de  end  come  quick  now, — dey  goin' 
to  shoot  us.  A  sure,  sure  sign  is  the  coming  of 
the  father." 

"No,  no,"  protested  Padre  Estenaga,  "my 
coming  here  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  intention 
of  the  government  in  regard  to  you.  I  heard  that 
some  of  you  were  sick  and  wounded,  and  thought 
that  my  services  might  be  needed." 

Catching  sight  of  Carroll's  recumbent  figure, 
he  hurried  over  to  him,  followed  by  Willard,  who 
explained  in  a  low  tone:  "Lieutenant  Carroll  of 
Gillie's  command.  He's  in  a  bad  way — crack  on 
the  head.  We  had  to  carry  him  from  the  river." 

The  priest  looked  into  the  face  of  the  uncon 
scious  man,  noted  his  flushed  cheeks  and  hoarse 
breathing,  and  nodded.  Then  he  ran  his  eyes 
slowly  around  the  room,  as  if  counting  the  number 
of  the  prisoners.  Without  further  comment,  he 
hurried  out  of  the  room.  Through  the  open  door 
they  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  spurring  his  horse 
madly  down  the  gulch,  toward  the  pueblo. 


i96  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"He  is  sure  in  a  big  hurry,  getting  out  of  here. 
I  am  still  mooch  scare,  me,"  and  Roubidoux,  still 
full  of  gloomy  forebodings,  regretted  that  he  had 
not  taken  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to  avail 
himself  of  the  services  of  the  church. 

It  was  well  after  midday,  and  all  inquiries  in 
regard  to  food  had  been  met  by  the  disdainful 
shrugs  of  the  guards.  A  voice  at  the  door,  rich 
with  the  full  accent  of  old  Spain,  caused  Harbin 
to  start. 

"I  guess  you  are  right,  Roubidoux,"  he  admitted 
despairingly.  "There's  that  damned  Spaniard 
again.  Hear  the  old-country  twang?  Palera 
has  been  overruled  at  headquarters.  Prepare 
for  the  worst,  boys.  Rush  the  guards  as  they 
enter  the  door,  and  try  to  get  their  guns.  We'll 
die  fighting,  anyway." 

But  Harbin  was  mistaken.  It  was  Don  Eulogio 
de  Celis,  a  Spaniard,  a  long  resident  in  the  pueblo, 
who  entered  the  room,  accompanied  by  Arillo 
and  an  English  doctor,  named  Richard  Den. 
The  latter  hurried  at  once  toward  Carroll,  and 
busied  himself  administering  restoratives. 

Don  Jos6  Antonio  stood  silent,  his  fine  face  red 
with  sudden  anger  as  his  full  gaze  took  in  the 
bare  room,  the  naked  earthen  floor,  the  anxiety 
on  the  faces  of  the  captives.  Turning  quickly 
to  the  door,  he  shouted  a  sharp  command,  and  a 
dozen  servants  led  by  Mariano  entered,  bearing 


THE  SNARL  OF  THE  WOLF        197 

clothing,  blankets,  and  baskets  of  food  for  the 
prisoners. 

Carroll  opened  his  eyes  to  gaze  into  the  anxious 
face  of  Arillo.  "My  dear  friend,"  the  Don 
explained,  ' '  I  heard  but  now  from  Padre  Estenaga 
of  your  capture,  and  the  condition  of  the  prisoners. 
I  could  not  have  known  sooner,  being  absent  till 
an  hour  ago  at  the  outpost  at  Palos  Verdes. 
And  that — that  of  this  morning.  Holy  Mother, 
it  is  a  shame  and  a  reproach  to  our  land  and  our 
people!" 

His  voice  trembled  with  indignation,  and  as  if 
to  relieve  his  feelings,  he  turned  quickly  to  the 
guards,  who  had  clustered  inquisitively  about 
the  open  door,  and  poured  forth  in  contemptuous 
Castilian  a  withering  excoriation  that  caused  the 
armed  men  to  slink  away.  Then,  as  if  half 
ashamed  of  his  outburst,  he  added,  with  an 
embarrassed  smile,  as  he  noted  the  hungry  men 
busy  over  the  baskets  of  food,  "For  Dios,  these 
fellows  must  all  chew  tobacco.  Hurry,  Mariano, 
to  the  pueblo,  and  bring  a  big  box.  Bring  also 
pipes." 

As  his  hand  grasped  Carroll's  in  parting,  the 
lieutenant  held  it  fast,  and  his  lips  uttered  the  one 
questioning  word,  ' '  Loreto  ? ' ' 

For  a  moment  the  face  of  Don  Jose  Antonio 
was  the  scene  of  conflicting  emotions.  Fear 
for  the  future  of  his  daughter,  and  regard  for 


198  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

the  man  whose  pain-laden  eyes  looked  up  at  him 
beseechingly,  battled  within  his  soul. 

"The  good  God  be  merciful  to  us  all,  Senor 
Carroll,"  he  sighed.  "We  are  being  carried  on 
by  a  tide  that  cannot  be  controlled.  Whither, 
neither  thou  nor  I  may  know.  What  I  might 
say  avails  but  little.  It  is  not  for  me  to  decide, 
but  for  the  good  God,  who  they  say  is  also  the 
God  of  battles.  We  are  all  in  His  hands.  Think 
of  it  not  at  all.  Rest  and  sleep.  Doctor  Den 
shall  come  to  you  each  day  till  you  are  recovered. 
I  shall  tell  my  daughter  that  you  are  now  in  no 
danger,"  he  added,  with  a  forced  reserve,  "and 
that  you  inquired  for  her."  Formal  as  his  words 
seemed,  they  implied  much. 

He  turned  to  Willard.  "My  dear  Don  Benito, 
let  your  mind  and  the  minds  of  your  men  be  at 
ease.  Not  only  are  you  safe,  but  you  will  receive 
henceforth  the  usage  that  all  civilized  nations 
accord  to  prisoners  of  war." 

Arillo  spoke  truly.  Thereafter  the  prisoners 
had  no  cause  to  complain  of  their  treatment. 
MacNamara  and  Ballestos  were  both  prisoners 
in  the  carcel,  by  the  order  of  Flores.  The  com 
mandant,  though  ambitious  and  vainglorious,  had 
many  of  the  fine  ideals  of  the  Spanish  gentle 
man.  Only  MacNamara's  ingenious  defense  had 
sav*ed  him  from  suspicion.  Exonerating  Bal 
lestos,  the  secret  agent  boldly  assumed  all 


THE  SNARL  OF  THE  WOLF        199 

responsibility  for  the  affair.  He  pointed  out 
that  the  men  were  for  the  most  part  naturalized 
Mexicans,  captured  with  arms  in  their  hands, 
fighting  against  a  land  that  had  given  them  a 
home,  and  that  he,  during  his  military  service 
in  Europe,  had  seen  men  shot  for  less.  Moreover, 
he  claimed  that  he  had  taken  a  hasty  response  of 
Flores,  "Dispose  of  them  as  you  see  fit,"  to  mean 
that  he  was  to  use  his  own  judgment  in  the 
matter  of  life  and  death. 

"Fool,"  roared  Flores  in  a  towering  passion, 
"I  thought  you  were  asking  where  the  prisoners 
should  be  quartered." 

"Take  them  both  away."  The  commandant 
waved  his  hand  disgustedly  toward  Ballestos 
and  the  Englishman.  "Keep  them  in  close  con 
finement  until  further  orders." 

But  of  this  the  prisoners  knew  nothing.  As  the 
days  dragged  on,  they  could  glean  but  little  news 
from  the  close-mouthed  guards  as  to  the  condition 
of  affairs  in  the  pueblo.  Gillie,  they  knew,  still 
held  the  hill,  for  they  could  hear  occasionally 
the  desultory  booming  of  the  escopetas,  and  the 
answering  crack  of  the  rifles. 

Commandant  Flores  himself,  accompanied  by 
Hugo  Vanuela,  trotted  into  the  hollow  one 
afternoon.  Taking  Benito  Willard  aside,  he 
addressed  him  in  a  mandatory  tone. 

"Do  thou,  Don  Benito,  write  to  that  fool  on 


200  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

the  hill  yonder  a  letter  advising  him  to  surrender. 
On  my  honor  as  a  Christian  and  a  gentleman,  I 
desire  to  avoid  further  bloodshed.  But  since 
the  skirmish  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  a  few  nights 
ago,  many  of  my  men  have  been  drinking,  and 
vowing  that  they  will  attack  him  whether  I  will 
or  no.  It  is  impossible  for  the  man  to  hold  out. 
He  has  no  supplies,  nor  any  means  of  getting  any. 
He  can  expect  no  assistance  for  months.  We 
wish  the  pueblo  to  be  rid  of  his  accursed  presence. 
Write  this  as  coming  from  thyself,  Don  Benito. 
You  know  I  am  speaking  the  truth." 

Willard  nodded.  "I  reckon  you're  right,  com 
mandant.  Gillie  can't  do  good  here,  cooped  up 
on  that  hill.  There  is  no  reason  for  him  to  be  as 
important  as  George  Washington,"  he  commented 
dryly,  as  he  hastily  scribbled  the  note  and  handed 
it  to  Flores. 

Lieutenant  Carroll,  seated  on  the  grass,  his 
bandaged  head  resting  against  an  oak,  looked  up 
to  find  himself  gazing  into  the  bronzed  face  of 
Vanuela.  Hugo's  eyes  were  full  of  insolent 
merriment  as  he  stared  down  at  the  reclining  man. 

"So-o,"  he  sneered,  "can  it  be  the  Senor  Carroll, 
the  protector  of  the  helpless,  the  friend  of  the 
oppressed?  No  doubt  you  found  my  pistol-butt 
somewhat  hard,  but  such  is  the  fortune  of  war. 
Is  there  any  message  you  would  wish  to  send  to 
your  friends  in  the  pueblo?" 


THE  SNARL  OF  THE  WOLF        201 

Carroll  glared  at  him,  his  face  set  in  an  expres 
sion  of  utter  disgust,  but  he  made  no  reply. 

"Perchance,"  went  on  Vanuela,  "it  would  be 
more  explicit  to  say  'friend'  instead  of  'friends.' 
There  might  be  a  message  to  a  fair  lady — a  love 
note,  eh!  I  would  be  honored  to  so  serve  you." 

At  the  man's  deliberate,  taunting  words,  replete 
with  malicious  triumph,  the  face  of  the  lieutenant 
paled  with  indignation.  He  would  have  liked 
to  drag  the  smiling  villain  from  his  horse  and 
choke  the  grin  from  his  face,  but  he  lay  before 
his  tormentor,  weak,  unarmed,  and  a  prisoner. 
Restraining  his  rage,  he  rose  slowly  to  his  feet. 
Then  coolly,  deliberately,  his  words  like  a  sword 
thrust,  he  replied. 

"The  gente  de  razon,  Vanuela,  choose  their 
company  carefully.  There  is  not  a  woman  of 
Spanish  blood  in  the  pueblo  who  would  receive  a 
note  from  the  hands  of  Hugo  Vanuela,  except  it 
be  a  woman  of  easy  virtue.  Thank  you  for  your 
kind  offer,"  he  sneered  back,  "but  no  missive  of 
mine  would  I  entrust  to  a  double-faced  traitor 
to  his  native  land." 

It  was  not  the  cool  cutting  tone  of  the  lieutenant, 
not  the  angry  flash  in  his  dark  blue  eye,  not  the 
scorn  in  his  face  that  hurt;  it  was  the  stinging 
truth  in  his  words  that  pierced  beneath  the 
Indian-like  impassiveness  of  Hugo  Vanuela  and 
for  the  moment  cut  his  very  soul.  For  once  in 


202  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

his  life  his  self-possession  vanished.  He  ground 
his  teeth  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  and  his  face 
twisted  into  an  expression  almost  demoniacal. 
With  bitter  hate,  he  hissed  out  a  foul  epithet,  and 
cantered  away  after  Commandant  Flores. 

"What  news  from  the  pueblo?"  asked  Carroll 
when,  a  few  hours  later,  Servolo  Palera  rode  up 
and  dismounted  at  the  door  of  the  prisoners' 
quarters. 

"Glorious  news — pardon  me — I  mean  welcome 
news  for  us.  Captain  Gillie  will  evacuate  the 
city." 

The  prisoners  came  rushing  to  the  door,  full  of 
eager  questions  and  glad  words  of  welcome  for 
Servolo. 

"Yes,"  went  on  Palera;  "Captain  Gillie  has 
hearkened  to  the  advice  of  Don  Benito  Willard. 
The  terms  of  Commandant  Flores  were  generous. 
The  Americans  are  to  be  allowed  to  march  peace 
ably  to  the  beach  at  San  Pedro,  where  Senor 
Gillie  has  promised  us  he  will  surrender  his  horses 
and  cannon.  He  also  agrees,  on  his  word  of 
honor,  to  embark  on  the  first  ship  that  comes  to 
port.  Even  now  is  he  marching  out.  Do  you 
wish  to  go  to  the  top  of  the  hill?  You  can  then 
see  them  as  they  pass  down  the  river  road.  The 
guards  will  accompany  you." 

Gladly  the  prisoners  availed  themselves  of  the 
privilege.  In  the  clear  California  air  they  could 


THE  SNARL  OF  THE  WOLF        203 

see  the  long  line  of  horsemen  scrambling  down  the 
hillside,  then  lost  to  view  as  they  rode  through 
the  streets  of  the  pueblo.  The  last  of  the  houses 
passed,  the  Americans  wound  into  the  open  road 
by  the  riverside;  the  fife  and  drum  struck  up  a 
lilting  air,  and  the  stars  and  stripes  were  proudly 
unfurled  as  if  in  defiance  of  the  body  of  Calif ornian 
horse  a  few  yards  behind.  Faintly  across  the  wide 
gulf  of  the  river  bed  the  sound  of  prolonged  cheer 
ing  came  to  the  prisoners  on  the  ridge.  Slowly 
the  starry  flag  fluttered  down  from  the  flagstaff 
on  the  hill,  and,  following  another  outburst  of 
cheers,  the  Mexican  tricolor  took  its  place. 

Servolo,  standing  by  Carroll,  threw  his  hat  in 
the  air,  with  a  glad  triumphant  cheer,  and  then 
turned  to  the  silent  prisoners  with  his  sweet 
smile. 

"You  will  pardon  me,  senores;  but  truly  we  have 
great  reason  to  rejoice." 

"That  is  all  right,  my  boy,"  said  Carroll,  laying 
his  hand  affectionately  on  the  other's  shoulder. 
"Cheer  while  yet  you  may,  because  there  will 
surely  come  a  time  when  you  cannot." 

During  the  weary,  monotonous  weeks  that 
followed,  little  news  of  Loreto  reached  Carroll, 
though  more  than  once  senoras  Willard  and 
Harbin  came  to  the  camp  with  comforts  for  their 
husbands.  Always  they  greeted  Carroll  kindly, 
their  dark  eyes  soft  with  secret  sympathy. 


204  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"Ah,  Senor  Carroll,"  Senora  Willard  whispered, 
"the  Senora  Arillo — she  is  terribly  angry.  She 
has  discovered  what  happened  the  morning  Loreto 
came  with  us  to  the  river  shore.  I  have  tried 
in  vain  to  reach  Loreto,  but  the  senora — she  is 
clever;  she  trusts  me  not.  When  I  go  to  the 
Arillo  home,  always  is  Loreto  hidden.  Jos6 
and  Manuel  are  with  the  soldiers;  Delfina  and 
Mariano  would  not  dare  disobey  the  senora. 
Foolish  woman  that  she  is,"  she  added,  as  she 
cast  a  loving  look  at  her  husband,  "she  does  not 
know  what  good  husbands  Americans  are." 

"Something  is  up,  lieutenant,"  commented 
Don  Benito,  after  one  of  these  visits.  "Don't 
be  surprised  if  you  hear  cannonading  at  any  time. 
Don  Jos6  Antonio,  the  cannon,  and  the  gun  crew 
left  the  pueblo  an  hour  ago,  going  in  the  direction 
of  San  Pedro.  Lordy!  Lordy!  but  I  hope  it  is 
Stockton.  He'll  sure  make  short  work  of  this 
silly  fuss." 


CHAPTER  XX 

AN   UNKNOWN   FRIEND 

ONE  night,  as  Carroll  was  drifting  off  to  sleep, 
the  mutter  of  voices  at  the  door  awoke  him, 
and  he  sat  up  with  a  start.  A  young  officer  whose 
face  and  figure  were  unknown  to  him,  followed  by 
three  barefooted  Indian  soldiers,  entered  the 
room,  and  asked  in  a  low  tone,  as  though  wishing 
to  avoid  waking  the  other  sleepers : 

' '  Lieutenant  Carroll  ? " 

"Here,"  he  responded  wonderingly. 

"You  are  to  accompany  me  at  once." 

Carroll's  heart  jumped  with  joy.  "Of  course, 
I  am  to  be  exchanged,"  he  ventured,  as  he  reached 
for  his  shoes. 

"No,"  answered  the  officer  shortly. 

The  lieutenant  stopped,  one  shoe  still  in  his 
hand,  and  stared  at  the  Californian,  who  mur 
mured,  "Make  haste;  time  presses." 

Strangely  puzzled,  he  followed  the  officer  and 
his  ragged  escort  up  the  tree-embowered  hollow,  his 
mind  ever  grappling  with  the  problem.  Why 
this  separation  from  the  other  prisoners?  Where 
were  they  taking  him?  Well,  he  would  not  die 
without  a  struggle. 

With  his  eyes  he  measured  the  slight  figure  of 

14  205 


206  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

the  Californian  striding  ahead  of  him.  In  a 
hand-to-hand  conflict  he  believed  he  could  master 
him,  secure  his  sword,  run  him  through,  and  then, 
blade  in  hand,  fight  on  till  he  had  routed  the 
Indians,  or  a  bullet  from  an  escopeta  brought  the 
end.  Carroll  had  fully  recovered  from  the  effects 
of  the  blow  on  the  head,  and  he  felt  his  muscles 
harden  and  his  heart  beat  faster  as  he  pictured  the 
possible  struggle  soon  to  come.  As  they  came 
to  an  open  spot  in  the  vale,  he  edged  close  to  the 
officer,  his  eye  on  the  sword  hilt. 

"Where  are  you  taking  me?"  he  demanded,  as 
he  came  to  a  halt. 

"Have  no  fear,  senor;  no  harm  is  intended  you," 
said  the  Californian,  as  he  smiled  reassuringly. 
Carroll  knew  intuitively  that  as  far  as  the  man 
himself  was  concerned,  he  spoke  the  truth. 

They  passed  the  last  of  the  scrub  oaks,  and 
as  they  climbed  the  slope  a  lone  adobe  loomed 
up  before  them,  gleaming  ghostly  white  in  the 
moonlight. 

"My  orders  were  to  conduct  you  here,  where 
you  will  remain.  Rations  will  be  brought  you 
from  day  to  day." 

"By  whose  orders?" 

"Carajo!  But  you  ask  many  questions.  I  do 
not  inquire  about  orders;  I  obey  them.  I  served 
three  years  in  the  Mexican  army." 

He  threw  up  his  head  with  a  gesture  of  pride. 


AN   UNKNOWN   FRIEND  207 

After  all,  Carroll,  though  an  officer,  was  but  a 
prisoner. 

The  door  was  thrown  open,  the  blankets  carried 
within,  and  the  Calif ornian  bade  him  a  courteous 
farewell. 

"I  wish  you  a  pleasant  night,  sefior,"  he  said, 
half  repentantly. 

Carroll  sat  long  at  the  door  in  thoughtful 
silence,  while  the  guards  lounged  a  few  feet  away, 
chatting  and  smoking  as  if  unconscious  of  his 
presence.  Neither  the  Spaniard  Almagro  nor 
Ballestos  could  be  responsible  for  his  present 
situation,  for  the  lieutenant  had  heard  through 
Palera  of  the  action  of  Flores.  The  thought  of 
Hugo  Vanuela  flashed  upon  his  mind.  Could 
it  be  that  he  had  separated  him  from  the  other 
prisoners  in  order  to  murder  him  without  inter 
ference  from  them?  Why  the  officer's  reticence 
in  regard  to  the  source  of  his  orders?  Why  the 
selection  of  this  deserted,  un visited  hovel?  He 
had  heard  of  Vanuela's  company  of  Indians. 
Could  these  men  be  from  his  command? 

"Would  the  serior  be  so  kind  as  to  oblige  us 
with  some  tobacco?" 

Carroll  looked  up  searchingly  into  the  man's 
face,  but  he  could  discern  there  no  sinister  signs 
of  treachery,  nothing  but  harmless,  amiable 
stupidity. 

"Much  thanks;  the  senor  is  very  kind,"  said 


208  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

the  barefooted  man,  as  he  took  the  piece  of  twisted 
sailor's  tobacco.  "Ah — American  tobacco.  I  have 
never  used  any  of  it.  They  say  it  is  very  good. 
It  will  be  a  treat.  A  thousand  thanks,  senor." 

Amid  so  much  treachery,  Carroll's  heart  went 
out  to  the  simple,  guileless  fellow. 

"Give  all  the  boys  some,"  he  said,  as  he  handed 
over  the  entire  roll. 

Still  puzzled,  and  dreading  the  worst,  for  there 
was  the  greater  part  of  the  night  yet  before  him, 
the  lieutenant  wrapped  himself  in  a  blanket  on 
the  floor,  well  out  of  range  of  the  open  doorway. 
He  laid  beside  him,  within  easy  reach  of  his  hand, 
a  stout  oaken  cudgel  he  had  found  on  the  floor. 

In  spite  of  his  watchfulness,  he  was  drifting  off 
to  sleep  when  a  piercing  scream  of  terror  caused 
him  to  spring  to  his  feet.  Grasping  his  club,  and 
rushing  to  the  door,  he  was  in  time  to  see  two  of 
the  guards  in  wild  flight  down  the  hill,  while  the 
other  had  dropped  his  gun  and  stood  transfixed 
by  fright,  his  arms  extended,  his  palms  outspread 
as  if  to  ward  off  some  invisible  horror. 

"Jesus  Maria!  God  in  Heaven!"  gurgled  the 
man.  "The  Black  Matador!  The  Black  Mat 
ador!"  Then,  recovering  the  control  of  his 
limbs,  with  a  shriek  of  fear  he  disappeared  down 
the  ravine. 

Amazed,  the  American  turned  in  the  direction 
of  the  man's  gaze. 


AN  UNKNOWN  FRIEND  209 

From  behind  the  corner  of  the  hut  came  a 
mounted  man,  his  horse's  feet  falling  noiselessly 
on  the  dry  ground.  In  spite  of  himself,  the 
lieutenant  thrilled  with  a  momentary  superstitious 
fear.  It  was  indeed  the  Black  Matador,  as 
Loreto  had  described  him.  He  wore  the  small 
round  hat,  knobbed  at  the  sides,  the  short,  wide 
cloak.  Somber,  spectral,  silent,  his  face  was 
hidden  by  a  cloth  as  black  as  his  raiment — black 
as  the  jet-black  steed  he  bestrode. 

With  beating  heart,  Carroll  clutched  his  cudgel, 
and  waited.  The  strange  visitor  turned  his 
horse  and  waved  his  arm  with  a  beckoning  motion. 
Carroll  hesitated,  his  mind  a  wild  flurry  of  hope, 
surprise,  and  distrust.  Who  was  the  creature? 
What  meant  this  fantastic  masquerade?  Was 
he  friend  or  foe?  Yet  the  rider  was  alone,  and' 
was  now  holding  out  both  hands  to  show  that  he 
was  unarmed. 

With  the  reckless  impetuosity  of  youth, 
Carroll  followed  him  over  the  rise,  down  into 
another  hollow,  toward  a  black  smudge  of  thick 
shrubbery.  As  they  approached,  a  tethered  horse 
raised  his  head  from  the  grass,  and  his  inquiring 
whinny  cut  into  the  silent  night.  Slowly  the 
other  rode  to  the  horse's  head,  unfastened  the 
rope  from  the  bridle,  then,  swinging  his  steed 
about,  he  motioned  to  the  empty  saddle. 

"In  God's  name,"  cried  Carroll,  "speak!" 


210  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Suddenly  across  his  mind  there  flashed  remem 
brance  of  the  night  he  had  met  Marshall  in  his 
strange  masquerade  near  the  old  bull  ring.  In 
the  set  of  the  black-swathed  shoulders  he  believed 
he  recognized  the  familiar  figure  of  the  frontiers 
man.  His  heart  lifted  in  great  relief,  and  he 
almost  laughed  aloud  at  the  sheer  audacity  of 
the  scheme. 

"Marshall — Jim,"  he  cried,  "drop  this  mas 
querade!  I  recognize  you." 

A  hoarse  sound,  sepulchral  enough,  neither  a 
chuckle  nor  a  sob,  came  from  the  horseman.  The 
faceless  head  shook  with  a  negative  motion.  With 
his  upraised  arm,  the  black  figure  described  a 
wide  circle  to  the  east,  and  finally  held  it  firmly, 
pointing  in  the  direction  of  San  Pedro,  his  fin 
gers  vibrating  meaningly.  The  American  easily 
grasped  his  meaning.  He  was  to  make  a  wide 
detour  to  avoid  the  Californian  pickets,  and  then 
ride  south  to  San  Pedro  and  the  beach,  where 
he  would  find  Gillie  and  his  men. 

"I  understand  you,  Jim,"  he  said,  as  he  sprang 
to  the  saddle. 

Without  warning,  the  stranger  brought  his 
quirt  down  on  the  haunches  of  Carroll's  horse, 
and  it  leaped  forward  in  affright.  For  a  moment 
the  lieutenant  struggled  with  the  frenzied  beast, 
then,  as  he  recovered  control,  he  glanced  back  at 
the  other. 


AN   UNKNOWN  FRIEND 


211 


The  drooping  shoulders  were  heaving  quietly, 
while  muffled  sounds,  as  of  hard-drawn  breathing, 
came  from  beneath  the  cloth-covered  face. 
Wondering  at  the  frontiersman's  reticence,  now 
that  the  purpose  of  the  ghostly  masquerade  was 
accomplished,  he  called  again,  surprise  in  his  tones. 

"Do  you  not  ride  with  me,  Jim?" 

Again  the  negative  shake  of  the  black  head. 
Carroll  was  tempted  to  laugh  aloud.  True,  he 
had  forgotten  that  the  Black  Matador  must  ride 
alone.  It  would  indeed  be  out  of  keeping  for 
him  to  ride  "cheek  by  jowl"  with  a  living  man. 
There  were  Californian  pickets  to  terrify  before 
Marshall  could  win  back  to  the  beach.  To  ride 
together  would  indeed  spoil  the  effect  of  the 
apparition.  Again  Carroll  laughed  to  himself. 

Yet  he  was  not  satisfied  as  to  his  deliverer's 
identity.  It  was  unlike  Marshall  to  be  silent,  for 
Marshall  was  a  man  who  scorned  deception. 
What  was  the  mystery  behind  it  all?  The  very 
hoofbeats  of  his  steed  were  unnatural  in  sound. 
He  walked  his  mount  and,  leaning  in  the  saddle, 
discovered  that  its  hoofs  were  wrapped  in  padded 
cloth. 

His  heart  grew  light  as  the  miles  fell  away 
behind  him,  until  he  remembered  that  each 
hoofbeat,  while  it  brought  him  nearer  to  friends 
and  safety,  took  him  farther  away  from  the 
woman  he  loved. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  CANNON  OF  THE  SENORA 

A  CANNON'S  roar  crashed  out  on  the  sensitive 
morning  air,  and  echoed  back  from  the 
quiet  gray  land  swells.  John  Carroll  awoke,  and 
rubbed  his  eyes. 

It  was  chill  morning,  with  the  sea-mist  still 
clinging  to  the  land  and  the  sun  an  impotent 
disk  of  scarlet  hanging  hand  high  above  the 
horizon.  Carroll's  gaze  brought  him  no  sign  of 
conflict.  There  was  no  life  on  the  winding  road 
way,  the  rolling  plain,  nor  the  mist-robed  shrub 
bery.  While  he  waited,  desperately  cold  and 
hungry,  and  aquiver  with  eagerness  to  ascertain 
the  cause  of  the  cannon  shot,  he  peered  cautiously 
through  the  scrub  oaks  where  he  had  spent  the 
night  wrapped  in  his  saddle  blanket. 

The  panorama  of  the  night  before  began  to 
unroll.  One  by  one  he  reviewed  the  incidents  of 
his  escape,  beginning  with  the  strange  march  up 
the  hill  to  the  deserted  adobe;  the  mysterious 
horseman  in  black;  his  own  hurried  ride  to  the 
eastward;  the  challenge,  and  the  shot  in  the 
darkness — a  shot  that  had  sent  his  steed  to 
the  ground,  kicking  in  agony.  Breathless  with 
suspense,  from  behind  a  hillock  he  had  watched  the 
Californians  gathered  around  his  dying  horse. 

212 


THE  CANNON  OF  THE  SENORA    213 

For  miles  he  had  walked  aimlessly,  for  the  night 
had  turned  cloudy;  the  sky  was  starless,  and  for 
aught  he  knew  he  might  be  hurrying  back  toward 
the  pueblo.  Around  him  everywhere  were  the 
watchful  horsemen,  and  a  hundred  times  he 
had  narrowly  escaped  recapture  only  by  lying 
flat  on  the  ground  as  they  trotted  past  in  the 
darkness.  Worn  out  by  his  futile  efforts  to  find 
a  main  ravine  that  led  toward  the  sea,  and 
realizing  that  if  morning  dawned  while  he  was 
without  means  of  concealment  his  capture  was 
certain,  he  had  crept  into  a  clump  of  oaks  in  a 
hollow  and  resigned  himself  to  sleep. 

In  front  of  him,  a  few  feet  away,  lay  the  road, 
a  winding  strip  of  yellow  ribboning  away  to  the 
south,  across  the  unbroken  plain  now  gold  and 
green  with  blossoming  mustard.  That  he  could 
not  be  far  from  the  sea,  he  knew;  for  in  the  mist 
slow-moving  over  the  swells  and  hollows  was  the 
salty  tang  of  the  ocean,  and  the  odor  of  moist 
seaweed.  High  above  him  wheeled  the  white 
wide-winged  gulls,  uttering  their  short,  shrill  cries. 

Along  the  winding  trail  came  a  mounted 
Calif ornian,  and  Carroll  drew  himself  more 
closely  behind  the  bushes.  The  rider  was  followed 
by  a  score  of  others,  walking  their  horses  and 
chatting  carelessly.  Don  Jose"  Antonio  rode 
alone,  apparently  deep  in  thought;  behind  him, 
Servolo,  engaged  in  an  animated  conversation 


2i4  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

with  Jose".  In  their  rear  fluttered  the  Mexican 
tricolor,  borne  proudly  aloft  by  Don  Francisco 
Cota.  Hugo  Vanuela,  astride  a  big  bay  horse, 
was  glancing  upward  at  the  flag,  scornful  amuse 
ment  showing  in  his  face.  They  went  by  almost 
within  touching  distance  of  the  fugitive. 

Carroll  noted  the  passing  of  the  brass  four- 
pounder.  It  was  mounted  on  the  front  wheels 
and  tongue  of  a  wagon,  and  drawn  by  a  dozen 
rawhide  riatas  attached  to  the  saddle-horns  of 
the  Californians.  Close  beside  it  rode  Manuel, 
his  young  face  bright  with  an  air  of  proud  pro 
prietorship.  For  the  fame  of  Seriora  Arillo's 
exploit  had  gone  far  and  wide,  and  the  old  field 
piece  had  already  been  dubbed  "the  Cannon  of 
the  Senora." 

The  group  came  to  a  halt.  The  main  body  of 
the  command,  nearly  a  hundred  mounted  men, 
cantered  up,  and  at  a  quick  order  from  Arillo 
scattered  over  the  neighboring  swells.  The  gun 
was  swung  around  into  position,  and  as  quickly 
loaded  and  rammed.  Vanuela  grasped  the  tongue 
and  lifted  it  from  the  ground,  while  Palera, 
kneeling  between  the  wheels,  sighted  it  at  the 
oncoming  Americans,  hidden  from  Carroll's  view. 

"Higher,  Sefior  Vanuela,"  warned  Palera;  "a 
little  lower  now — there  now,  Manuel,  my  boy." 

Manuel  puffed  his  cigar  to  a  coal,  and  touched 
it  to  the  vent.  An  echoing  roar,  and  the  drifting 


THE  CANNON  OF  THE  SENORA     215 

smoke  hid  for  a  moment  the  group  of  men  and 
horses.  As  it  cleared  away,  Carroll  could  see 
them  bending  forward  in  their  saddles,  their 
hands  at  their  brows,  eager  to  note  the  effect  of 
the  shot. 

"Curses  on  that  powder,"  groaned  Cota,  the 
standard  bearer.  "It  does  nothing  but  puff. 
See  the  ball  roll.  Try  the  good  powder." 

From  close  at  hand  came  the  mocking  shouts 
of  the  unharmed  enemy.  With  incredible  quick 
ness  the  gun  crew  leaped  to  their  horses  and  the 
band  galloped  away,  the  gun  straining  and  leaping 
wildly  at  the  riata  ends.  Carroll  riskily  wormed 
himself  forward  to  where  he  could  see  both  up 
and  down  the  roadway.  He  could  hear  the 
measured  tread  of  many  feet;  then  over  the 
low  rise  came  the  Americans,  four  hundred  strong. 
They  were  on  foot,  marching  in  a  hollow  square, 
and  Carroll  noted  with  surprise  that  they  were 
armed  with  lances  as  well  as  with  carbines. 

The  watchful  man  in  the  bushes  was  in  a  glow 
of  hopeful  expectancy;  in  a  few  moments  the 
invading  force  would  be  opposite  him  and  he 
could  easily  rejoin  them.  He  glanced  up  the  trail 
toward  the  Californians.  As  he  did  so,  the  gun 
again  belched  forth  its  cloud  of  smoke. 

But  this  time  there  were  no  derisive  cheers 
from  the  advancing  force.  He  saw  a  sailor  on 
the  corner  of  the  square  go  down  with  a  yell  of 


ai6  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

agony.  Around  the  wounded  man  the  Americans 
crowded,  while  the  officers  shouted  unheeded 
orders.  Slowly  they  resumed  the  square  forma 
tion,  as  if  in  momentary  expectation  of  a  charge 
from  the  mounted  enemy.  In  the  center  of  the 
square  Gillie,  Somers,  and  several  other  officers 
whom  Carroll  could  not  recognize,  were  holding 
an  excited  conference,  while  from  above  came  the 
glad,  triumphant  singing  of  the  Californians. 

"  No  stranger  rules  our  fathers'  land 

His  flag  in  dust  is  lain ; 
No  more  we  bow  to  his  command, 
We  Sons  of  Ancient  Spain." 

Could  it  be  possible  that  the  Americans  were 
about  to  retreat?  If  they  did,  his  recapture  was 
only  a  matter  of  hours.  Suddenly  he  sprang 
to  his  feet,  the  light  of  a  desperate  chance  in  his 
face.  He  was  halfway  between  the  two  forces, 
but  somewhat  nearer  to  the  Californians.  Press 
ing  his  cap  firmly  on  his  head,  he  darted  out  of 
the  oaks  and  raced  madly  along  the  level  road. 

The  sharp  eye  of  Vanuela  noted  the  sudden 
appearance  of  the  flying  uniformed  figure  as  it 
shot  into  view  and,  followed  by  Jose,  he  spurred 
his  horse  after  him.  Carroll,  covering  the  ground 
in  mighty  leaps,  glanced  back  for  an  instant. 
They  were  almost  upon  him,  Vanuela's  lance  held 
low,  his  face  cruelly  gleeful,  his  hand  steady. 
In  the  single  moment  of  Carroll's  backward 


THE  CANNON  OF  THE  SENORA    217 

glance,  Hugo  had  recognized  the  insolent  young 
officer  of  the  stockade.  Hardly  thirty  feet  away 
was  Vanuela  when  Carroll's  foot  caught  in  a  tuft 
of  grass  and  he  went  sprawling  on  his  face. 

But  in  that  moment  Jose,  spurring  his  mount 
forward  in  a  mighty  bound,  bumped  sidewise 
against  the  neck  of  Vanuela's  horse,  causing  it  to 
stagger  and  rear  in  wild  confusion. 

"Sangre  de  Cristo,  thou  young  fool,  what  dost 
thou  mean?"  Hugo  roared,  as  he  struggled  with 
his  startled  steed. 

Jose,  who  had  recognized  Carroll  from  the 
first,  looked  at  Vanuela  in  silence,  his  face  cool 
and  determined,  his  hand  resting  meaningly  on 
the  pistol  butt  in  his  sash.  For  a  moment  they 
glared  into  one  another's  eyes — a  moment  long 
enough  for  Carroll  to  gather  himself  up  and  dash 
panting  toward  the  square  that  opened  to  receive 
him. 

As  the  ranks  closed  behind  him,  he  found 
himself  beside  Marshall,  whose  deadly  rifle  was 
leveled  in  the  direction  of  the  two  Californians. 
There  was  time  neither  to  speak  nor  think.  He 
threw  himself  bodily  against  the  frontiersman, 
staggering  him  and  sending  the  bullet  from  his 
rifle  kicking  up  the  dust  on  the  roadway. 

"Damnation!"  snapped  Marshall.  "I  would 
have  gotten  that  fellow."  Then,  as  he  turned 
to  greet  Carroll,  "Jehosophat,  lieutenant,  but 


218  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

I  am  goll-durned  glad  to  see  you."  And  in  a 
lower  voice  he  added,  "But  you  needn't  have 
done  it.  'T  war  n't  the  boy  I  was  after;  'twuz 
the  damn  yalla-headed  greaser.  Sech  ain't  by 
no  means  natural,  no  more'n  a  white  crow. 
An'  what  ain't  accordin'  to  natui  ain't  hulsum. 
If  the  Lord  knows  His  business  He  is  goin'  to  give 
me  one  more  chance  to  get  that  varmint  over 
the  sights  before  this  fool  war  is  over." 

A  quick  welcome  from  Somers  and  Gillie — 
there  was  no  time  for  explanations — and  the 
bugle  sounded  the  order  to  advance.  The  square 
moved  on  slowly  over  the  level  ground,  the 
officers  in  the  center,  the  frontiersmen  scattered 
in  a  skirmishing  line.  Irregularly  their  rifles 
spoke  as  they  sighted  a  mounted  enemy  to  the 
right  or  left.  Well  out  of  range,  the  Californians 
answered  the  shots  with  jeering  waves  of  the 
hand. 

"Here  comes  another  wan  av  thim  doughnuts," 
observed  an  Irish  sailor,  as  he  noted  the  gun  crew 
drawing  away  from  the  cannon. 

A  screeching  roar  close  above  their  heads,  and 
something  dropped  to  the  ground  in  the  center 
of  the  square. 

"Be  jabers,  I'm  dismasted,"  the  Irishman 
remarked,  as  he  mournfully  surveyed  the  remnant 
of  the  lance  shaft  left  in  his  hand. 

The  scattered  frontiersmen  were  running  madly 


THE  CANNON  OF  THE  SENORA    219 

toward  the  gun,  firing  as  they  ran.  But  bounding 
and  plunging  at  the  riatas'  ends,  it  was  again 
beyond  rifle  range. 

Sounds  of  angry  voices  came  from  the  right. 
Marshall  and  several  of  the  skirmishers  were 
engaged  in  an  altercation  with  an  officer  of  the 
marines.  The  frontiersmen,  as  the  gun  was 
fired,  had  thrown  themselves  flat  on  the  ground, 
springing  to  their  feet  and  racing  after  it  as  soo'i 
as  the  shot  had  passed.  The  little  officer  was 
denouncing  the  tactics  of  Marshall  and  his  men 
as  shameful  cowardice. 

"Now,  say,  you  young  fellah,  look  ahere," 
Marshall  was  saying.  "Jest  you  keep  your  shirt 
on,  and  don't  get  excited.  It 's  awful  bad  for  the 
liver  in  this  hot  climate.  We're  volunteers — we 
ain't  tin  soldiers,  nor  marines.  We  'listed  to 
fight,  but  not  to  get  killed  if  we  can  help  it. 
There  ain't  no  glory,  nor  bravery,  nor  common 
hoss-sense  in  standing  up  to  get  shot  at,  when 
you  might  jest  as  well  take  it  easy  and  lie  down, 
and  it's  a  whole  dinged  lot  safer.  You  jest  run 
back  to  your  corral  with  the  other  officers,  and 
we'll  do  all  the  skirmishing  this  fool  army  needs 
in  its  business.  This  war  ain't  run  to  suit  me, 
nohow." 

Disconcerted  by  the  grinning  faces  of  the 
frontiersmen,  the  officer  gave  up  the  attempt  to 
discipline  them,  and  retired  within  the  square. 


220  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"Let  Marshall  alone,"  growled  Gillie.  "He 
generally  knows  what  he  is  doing." 

The  captain  had  learned  much  in  the  past 
month. 

Again  a  ball  of  white  smoke  burst  in  the  midst 
of  the  Calif ornians;  again  the  skirmishers  ran 
forward.  Close  enough  they  were,  this  time,  to 
bring  down  one  of  the  horses  of  the  gun  crew. 

But  amid  the  gleeful  shouts  of  the  Californians, 
the  cannon  was  again  whisked  out  of  their  reach. 
To  advance  too  far  from  the  square  was  to  court 
death  on  a  lance  point.  The  fever  of  killing  was 
in  the  veins  of  all. 

Cota,  flaunting  the  flag  defiantly,  was  still 
hovering  recklessly  near  the  skirmishers'  line. 
Gillie  lowered  his  field  glass  and  observed 
quietly,  "I  know  that  man  with  the  flag.  He 
is  no  Californian,  but  one  of  Willard's  men, — 
Skene,  an  Austrian.  He  has  deserted  to  the 
enemy.  Fire  on  that  fellow  with  the  flag,"  he 
shouted  to  the  skirmishers.  "He's  an  American 
deserter." 

Truly,  with  his  blue  eyes,  fair  face,  and  blond 
hair,  Cota  looked  little  like  a  Californian.  A 
fusillade  of  shots  from  the  skirmish  line,  and  the 
flag  staff  dropped  from  his  hands  and  his  horse 
tumbled  forward  on  its  head,  shot  through  the 
brain.  But  Cota  was  on  his  feet,  racing  away, 
bearing  the  colors  with  him.  After  him  darted 


THE  CANNON  OF  THE  SENORA    221 

the  skirmishers,  firing  as  they  ran.  Rejoining  his 
comrades  about  the  gun,  Cota  doffed  his  sombrero, 
and  bowed  ironically. 

Again  the  cannon  belched.  This  time  the  ball 
struck  the  square  fairly  in  the  center  of  the  front 
rank,  cutting  off  a  sailor's  leg  at  the  thigh.  All 
semblance  of  military  formation  was  lost  as 
the  anxious  Americans  gathered  around  the 
injured  man. 

He  was  gazing  in  horror  at  the  blood  spouting 
from  his  severed  limb,  and  babbling  incoherently 
about  home.  A  moment  later  he  gasped,  and 
stiffened  in  death. 

With  bitter  curses  on  their  lips,  the  frontiersmen 
raced  after  the  enemy,  only  to  find  their  efforts 
balked  by  the  wonderful  celerity  with  which  the 
Californians  maneuvered  the  gun. 

Stubbornly,  Gillie  and  his  men  held  on.  For 
three  miles  the  Americans  chased  the  flying  field 
piece,  shot  after  shot  landing  in  their  ranks,  till 
at  length,  with  six  men  dead  and  seven  wounded, 
a  retreat  was  ordered. 

Wearily  back  to  the  Dominguez  ranch  house 
they  trailed,  tired  with  marching  and  saddened 
by  death. 

Carroll,  walking  by  Marshall,  told  him  of  his 
escape  and,  as  he  mentioned  the  Black  Matador, 
"It  was  you,  wasn't  it,  Jim?"  he  inquired. 

Marshall  seemed  about  to  answer,  but  changed 
15 


222  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEELO 

his  mind.  He  was  scrutinizing  the  lieutenant 
curiously. 

"Ain't  the  notion  struck  you,  John,  that 
there  mought  be  a  mighty  good  reason  for  keepin' 
it  a  secret  for  some  one,  or  you'd  been  told 
before?"  suggested  Marshall  cautiously. 

"Why  secrecy  with  me?"  queried  Carroll. 

"The  Black  Matador  had  a  reason,  all  right  — 
all  right.  Don't  you  go  now  to  spoil  his  game, 
John." 

Marshall's  words  gave  no  clew. 

As  if  to  change  the  subject  of  conversation,  he 
recounted  to  Carroll  the  events  of  the  past  two 
weeks. 

"We  rode  to  the  beach  with  Arillo's  men  close 
behind  us,  watching  us  like  a  cat  watches  a 
mouse.  When  we  gets  there,  the  greasers  comes 
and  takes  all  our  horses,  and  said  they  wuz  comin' 
the  next  day  for  the  guns.  The  next  morning 
along  comes  the  Vandalia,  a  Boston  trading  ship. 
'Now  hand  over  them  guns,'  sez  Flores  in  a  note 
he  sends  the  captain,  'and  git  aboard.' 

"But  the  captain,  he  flummoxes  around  day 
after  day,  with  Flores  sending  him  notes  and 
proclamations  every  few  hours  an'  him  always 
givin'  Flores  excuses.  Then  Flores  got  mad  and 
turned  off  the  ditch  that  was  bringing  our  water 
supply  down  to  the  beach. 

"I  guess  that  made  the  captain  mad,  for  do  you 


THE  CANNON  OF  THE  SENORA    223 

know  what  he  does?"  Marshall  lowered  his  voice. 
"He  knocks  the  trunnions  off  them  guns,  spikes 
them,  pounds  rocks  into  their  insides,  and  rolls 
them  into  the  water  at  low  tide." 

"Had  he  agreed  to  give  them  up?"  inquired 
Carroll. 

"He  said  he'd  leave  them  on  the  beach.  I 
heard  him  tell  Flores  that  on  the  hill,  and  it's 
on  the  paper." 

Carroll  stopped,  and  stared  at  the  frontiersman. 
"God!"  he  exclaimed.  "No,  no,  Marshall,  you 
must  be  mistaken." 

"Naw;  no  mistake  about  it.  Him  and  Somers 
had  a  row,  they  say.  Somers  would  n't  do  it 
because  he  signed  the  paper.  Then  the  captain 
said  he'd  arrest  him.  'All  right,'  sez  Somers, 
'here's  my  sword,'  but  the  captain  looked  kind  of 
solemn  for  a  minute,  and  did  n't  take  his  sword. 
And  then  he  goes  off  and  gets  some  of  them  sap- 
headed  marines  to  do  it.  Them  fellahs  would 
stand  on  their  ear  if  he  told  them  to." 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  Carroll  would 
have  bristled  at  Marshall's  reference  to  the 
marines,  but  his  mind  was  now  full  of  Gillie's 
treacherous  conduct. 

"The  shame  of  it — the  shame  of  it!"  he 
repeated. 

"Yep — rotten  business,  all  right"  resumed 
Marshall.  ' '  So  we  all  went  on  board  the  Vandalia, 


224  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

and  in  a  few  days  along  comes  that  Savannah  ship 
with  Captain  Mervine  and  about  four  hundred 
sailors — that 's  Mervine  over  there."  He  pointed 
to  a  tall  officer  marching  at  the  head  of  the 
square. 

"An*  sez  he  to  himself,  sez  Mervine,  'It's  for 
me  to  show  you  fellahs  how  to  fight  greasers. 
Come  on,  boys.'  Mervine  did  n't  know  them 
fellahs  had  a  cannon,  leastwise  the  captain 
did  n't  tell  him,  or  he  thought  the  old  gun  would 
be  no  good  after  we  knocked  it  down  the  hill  that 
time.  An'  so  after  makin'  a  lot  of  lances  for  the 
marines  and  sailors  to  have  handy  if  the  greasers 
should  come  down  in  a  charge,  we  starts — and 
here  we  are  now,  gettin'  back  to  the  beach  as  fast 
as  we  can,  with  six  dead  men.  I  use  to  think 
that  the  greasers  were  good  for  nothing  but 
yellin*  and  writin'  proclamations,  but  they  are 
some  fighters,  all  right.  This  old  war  ain't  run 
to  suit  me,  nohow.  When  it 's  over,  I  am  goin'  to 
buy  me  a  rancho,  an'  ride  a  white  horse  with 
silver-mounted  saddle,  like  Don  Andreas  Pico. 
I  don't  have  to  soldier  for  twenty-five  a  month 
and  found." 

At  the  Dominguez  Rancho,  Mervine  and 
Gillie  secured  oxen  and  wagons  to  carry  the  dead 
and  wounded,  and  the  march  to  the  beach  was 
resumed.  Around  them  hovered  the  Californians, 
but  much  to  the  surprise  of  the  Americans  no 


THE  CANNON  OF  THE  SENORA     225 

further  attacks  were  made,  and  they  continued 
their  march  unmolested.  They  could  not  know 
that  the  Californians  had  fired  their  last  charge 
of  good  powder. 

As  the  level  line  of  the  ocean  sprang  into  view, 
they  noted  another  ship  swinging  at  anchor  by 
the  Vandalia  and  the  Savannah.  Quickly  the 
news  ran  around  the  square  that  the  Congress,  with 
Commodore  Stockton,  had  arrived,  and  the  men 
broke  into  cheers. 

When  they  reached  the  long  yellow  strip  of 
sandy  beach  Gillie,  accompanied  by  Carroll  and 
Somers,  went  at  once  on  board  the  Congress,  the 
commodore's  flagship,  where  the  captain  presented 
to  Stockton  his  oral  report  of  the  happenings  in 
the  pueblo. 

"You  say,"  said  Stockton,  "that  Flores,  Arillo, 
Alvaro,  Pico,  De  la  Guerra,  and  all  the  others 
who  had  given  us  their  paroles,  are  now  in  arms 
against  us?  By  the  Eternal,"  he  roared,  hot 
with  anger,  "the  time  for  leniency  has  passed. 
When  I  get  my  hands  on  those  fellows  I  will 
court-martial  and  hang  every  one  of  them. 
Shooting  is  too  honorable  a  death  for  such  men. 
Look  at  our  poor  dead  boys  on  the  canvas  there." 

Carroll,  standing  near,  stared  at  him  in  silent 
horror.  His  face  paled,  and  his  heart  sank 
within  him. 

Stockton  was  a  man  of  action.     Immediately 


226  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

the  marines  and  sailors  of  the  three  ships  were 
landed  on  the  beach,  and  under  the  guidance  of 
Carroll  and  Somers  for  two  weeks  they  practiced 
on  the  level  sands  the  unaccustomed  evolutions 
of  land  forces.  At  night  they  returned  to  the  safe 
shelter  of  the  ships,  the  commodore  dreading  a 
night  attack  from  the  Californians,  whose  watch 
ful  pickets  patrolled  the  neighboring  heights. 

At  last  everything  was  declared  in  readiness. 
There  was  joy  among  the  men,  for  to-morrow 
would  see  them  marching  on  the  rebellious 
pueblo.  But  there  was  no  joy  in  the  heart  of 
Lieutenant  Jack  Carroll  as  he  moodily  paced  the 
deck.  To  him  the  march  of  to-morrow  meant 
only  an  added  weight  of  woe  and  bitterness. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  CABALLADA  OF  DON  JOSE  ANTONIO 

""DOR  Dios,  Servolo,"  said  Don  Jose  Antonio, 

•*•  "but  little  news  is  this  to  me.  Since  I  have 
noted  for  the  last  two  months  much  English  gold 
current  in  the  pueblo,  and  heard  of  the  British 
ships  at  Monterey,  I  have  been  suspicious.  The 
Picos,  I  believe,  have  a  hand  in  this.  Ever  since 
the  governor,  Don  Pio,  would  have  given  the 
land  to  MacNamara,  they  have  been  friendly  to 
any  English  plan.  But  never  will  I  consent. 
English  rule  would  mean  the  reign  of  heretics. 
England  coerced  the  church  in  Ireland.  If  our 
land  must  go  to  another  nation,  I  favor  the 
Americans.  They  are  not  all  like  Captain  Gillie." 

For  Servolo  had  just  brought  to  Arillo  the 
startling  tale  of  his  servant,  who,  loitering  in  the 
moonlight  in  a  lonely  spot,  had  overheard  two 
men,  whom  he  could  not  recognize,  discussing 
a  plan  the  purport  of  which  was  the  placing  of 
California  under  a  British  protectorate. 

"The  mischief  is  now  afoot.  None  knows  how 
soon  they  may  move.  To  stop  it  we  must  strike, 
and  strike  quickly.  Wilt  ride  with  me,  Servolo?" 
asked  the  Don  as  he  threw  his  serape  around 
him  and  buckled  on  his  sword  belt. 

Palera  nodded  assent.  For  a  moment  Arillo 
227 


228  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

hesitated,  a  tender  light  in  his  face,  then,  taking 
a  candle  from  the  table,  he  passed  into  his 
daughter's  room. 

She  lay  breathing  quietly,  her  fair  face  framed 
in  billows  of  lustrous  black  hair.  One  cheek  was 
wet  with  a  single  tear.  As  the  father  bent  over 
to  touch  his  lips  to  her  brow,  she  awoke,  and 
gazed  up  at  him  in  wonder. 

"I  must  ride  to  the  camp  by  San  Pedro  now," 
he  explained.  "Be  of  good  cheer,  but  do  not 
expect  too  much.  I  go  to  do  that  which  may  bring 
thee  much  happiness.  I  may  have  good  news 
to-morrow  night." 

"What— what?" 

He  laid  his  hand  warningly  on  her  lips. 

"Ask  no  questions,  but  pray  for  my  success." 

Only  a  moment  the  two  horsemen  stopped  at 
the  stockade  gate.  Arillo  dismounted  and  went 
within,  to  return  almost  immediately  with  Benito 
Willard,  who  was  mounted  but  unarmed.  As 
their  hoofbeats  died  away  on  the  road  to  the 
south,  a  heavy  figure  drew  from  out  the  shadow 
of  a  near-by  veranda. 

"So-o-o,  Arillo  rides  with  Don  Benito  to  the 
camp  at  the  Palos  Verdes.  Some  trickery  have 
they  planned.  A  wise  man  was  the  Englishman 
to  warn  me  to  watch  Don  Jos6  Antonio.  He 
must  know  of  this  at  once,"  muttered  Vanuela 
as  he  dashed  away  in  the  darkness. 


THE   "CABALLADA"  229 

But  few  days  had  MacNamara  remained  in  the 
confinement  of  the  carcel.  Flores,  finally  con 
vinced  that  the  attempt  on  the  lives  of  the 
prisoners  had  been  owing  to  an  excess  of  zeal  and 
a  possible  misunderstanding  of  his  own  command, 
had  ordered  both  him  and  Ballestos  released. 
It  was  his  conversation  with  Vanuela  that  had 
been  overheard  by  Palera's  servant. 

"Don  Benito,"  said  Arillo  when  they  had 
arrived  at  the  Temple  ranch  house  where  the 
Californian  officers  had  established  their  head 
quarters,  "to-morrow  I  am  going  to  send  you  with 
a  flag  of  truce  to  the  edge  of  the  mesa  above  the 
landing  at  San  Pedro.  Don  Francisco  Cota 
will  be  placed  on  the  ridge  above  you.  When 
he  waves  the  Mexican  flag  thrice,  do  you  wave 
your  white  flag,  and  seek  an  interview  with 
Stockton.  You  may  tell — " 

The  Don's  voice  was  drowned  by  the  loud 
barking  of  dogs  outside.  Servolo  rushed  to  the 
door,  and  his  sharp  command  sent  them  slinking 
away,  save  one  wise  old  hound  who  persisted  in 
sniffing  suspiciously  beneath  the  open  window. 

"You  may  tell  him  from  me,"  went  on  Arillo, 
"that  I  am  anxious  to  avoid  further  bloodshed. 
Tell  him  that  he  may  land  and  take  possession 
of  the  coast,  and  that  no  other  nation  will  be 
allowed  by  us  to  obtain  a  foothold  in  California. 
Tell  him  that  we  will  bring  to  his  camp  all  the 


23o  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

supplies  he  may  need,  if  he  will  refrain  from 
attempting  to  march  men  through  the  country, 
a  proceeding  which  will  but  engender  bad  feelings 
between  two  people  who  may  have  to  live  together 
in  the  future.  On  the  other  hand,  we  promise  to 
refrain  from  any  hostile  movement  and  to  abide 
by  the  results  of  the  war  beyond  the  Rio  Grande, 
whatever  they  may  be." 

But  yesterday,  to  add  to  Arillo's  growing 
discouragement,  had  come  rumors  of  Mexican 
defeats  beyond  the  Rio  Grande,  and  the  tale,  all 
too  accurate,  of  the  total  failure  of  the  powder- 
making  experiments  at  San  Gabriel.  Not  only 
Don  Jose  Antonio  but  Alvaro,  Garfias,  Cota, 
Rico,  and  many  others  would  have  no  regrets 
should  Stockton  offer  honorable  terms  of  sur 
render.  But  the  pride  of  the  Castilian  would 
never  permit  them  to  seek  mercy  from  an  armed 
enemy.  Far  better  a  hopeless  struggle  than  a 
loss  of  dignity.  Any  well-defined  offer  would 
have  to  come  from  the  American. 

While  Don  Jose  Antonio  had  but  little  hope  that 
the  proposition  for  a  truce  submitted  to  Willard 
would  be  accepted  by  Stockton,  yet  negotiations 
would  have  been  opened.  Then,  if  he  could 
secure  from  the  American  the  assurance  that 
the  pueblo  would  not  be  burdened  with  military 
rule,  and  that  the  matter  of  the  broken  paroles 
would  be  forgiven  and  forgotten,  Arillo  was  ready 


THE   "CABALLADA"  231 

to  throw  the  whole  weight  of  his  influence  in  favor 
of  surrender.  For  some  days  he  had  been  ponder 
ing  the  plan,  and  now  the  startling  information 
that  there  was  a  pro-British  plot  afoot  determined 
him  to  delay  no  longer.  He  was  confident  that 
any  terms  of  surrender  compatible  with  the  dignity 
of  the  genie  de  razon  would  be  accepted  by  the 
Californians  in  spite  of  the  possible  opposition 
of  Flores,  who  at  the  present  time  was  absent  at 
San  Juan  Capistrano. 

Some  three  miles  inland  from  where,  the  next 
day,  Benito  Willard  and  Servolo  lay  on  the 
edge  of  the  mesa,  was  a  long  gap  in  the  brown 
land  rolls,  there  rising  almost  to  the  dignity  of 
hills.  Past  this  opening,  hour  after  hour,  amid 
clouds  of  swirling  dust,  rode  the  four  hundred 
mounted  men  of  the  Californian  army,  surrounded 
by  three  thousand  riderless  range  horses.  Like 
the  fabled  king  of  France,  Arillo  was  marching  his 
caballada  of  men  and  horses,  not  up  a  hill,  but 
"round  a  hill  and  round  again."  He  was  making 
a  demonstration  in  hope  that  the  American 
commander  would  more  readily  offer  peace  on 
acceptable  terms. 

Impatiently  Don  Benito  watched  the  motionless 
figure  of  Cota  on  the  ridge.  He  saw  a  breech- 
clouted  Indian  canter  up,  confer  with  him  a 
moment,  and  then  disappear.  Turning  his  glance 
oceanward,  he  noted  that  the  boats  which  but 


232  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

a  short  time  before  had  left  the  flagship,  were,  in 
response  to  a  string  of  signal  flags,  now  returning 
to  the  ships. 

Again  he  turned  his  glass  on  the  hills.  The 
caballada  was  still  in  motion,  though  the  dimness 
of  coming  night  was  already  falling  over  the  land. 
From  far  out  over  the  water  there  came  to  him 
the  creaking  of  the  windlass,  and  the  hoarse 
chanteys  of  the  sailors.  He  could  see  the  men 
strung  out  along  the  yards.  The  ships  were 
making  sail. 

Again  Willard  turned  the  glass  inland.  From 
the  figure  of  the  standard  bearer,  now  hardly 
discernible  in  the  gathering  dusk,  came  no  warning 
motion.  In  desperation  the  American  sprang 
to  his  feet  and  waved  the  white  cloth  frantically. 
But  there  was  no  response  from  the  ships  as, 
beating  their  way  against  the  breeze,  they 
drew  slowly  from  shore  on  their  way  to  San 
Diego. 

Far  too  well  had  the  ruse  de  guerre  of  Don  Jose 
Antonio  done  its  work.  To  Commodore  Stockton 
the  lookouts  at  the  mastheads  had  reported  that 
over  three  thousand  cavalry  had  been  counted, 
passing  an  opening  in  the  ridge.  Believing  that 
the  Californians  had  received  reinforcements  from 
Sonora,  and  that  to  attack  them  with  six 
hundred  sailors  and  marines  would  be  madness, 
Stockton  had  given  orders  to  set  sail  at  once 


THE   "CABALLADA"  233 

for  San  Diego,  where  a  good  harbor  afforded 
protection  against  the  dangerous  easterly  winds 
of  the  winter  season. 

Disheartened  by  the  failure  of  Arillo's  plan  to 
end  the  war,  Willard  rode  back  to  camp.  Cota 
had  already  arrived.  In  response  to  Arillo's 
sharp  inquiry  as  to  why  he  had  not  given  the 
signal,  he  stated  that  an  Indian  had  brought  him 
a  note,  signed  by  Don  Jose  Antonio,  instructing 
him  not  to  give  the  signal  until  further  orders 
reached  him. 

"They  have  outwitted  us,"  said  Arillo  sadly. 
"Do  not  grieve,  my  dear  Francisco,"  he  added 
kindly,  as  he  noted  Cota's  downcast  face.  "I 
myself  am  to  blame.  I  made  too  much  demon 
stration."  And  he  sighed  as  he  thought  of  the 
sad-faced  girl  to  whom  he  could  bring  naught  but 
tidings  of  disappointment. 

Hugo  Vanuela,  seated  smoking  by  a  camp  fire, 
from  under  his  broad-brimmed  hat  watched  the 
four  as  they  rode  through  the  camp.  His  face, 
lit  by  the  flare  of  the  embers,  was  inscrutable, 
but  his  dark  soul  was  filled  with  an  unhallowed 
joy.  MacNamara,  sitting  opposite,  could  not  re 
strain  a  chuckle. 

"For  Dios,  Hugo,  thou  art  not  wanting  in 
cleverness.  The  plan  of  the  note  was  thine  own. 
Rest  assured  it  shall  not  be  forgotten  in  the  days 
to  come." 


234  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Gladly  would  Vanuela  have  seen  the  Cali- 
fornians  surrender  to  Stockton,  but  a  reconcilia 
tion  which  would  leave  Arillo  in  high  favor  with 
the  conquerors  was  no  part  of  his  plans.  It  was 
he  whom  the  barking  dogs  had  driven  from 
beneath  the  window  of  the  Temple  ranch  house. 

Arillo  and  Palera  searched  in  vain  next  day  for 
the  missing  messenger.  At  that  very  moment  the 
half -wild  fellow,  who  had  known  little  of  mission 
training,  was  miles  away,  galloping  gladly  to  his 
home  in  the  hills.  The  Indians  in  the  camp,  firm 
in  their  loyalty  to  the  son  of  Leo,  swore  that  they 
knew  nothing  of  the  man. 

Far  out  at  sea,  below  the  decks  of  the  Cyanc, 
Lieutenant  John  Carroll  tossed  restlessly  in  his 
hammock.  He  was  thinking  of  Stockton's  threat. 
The  princely  Don  Jose"  Antonio,  the  kindly  Alvaro, 
the  jovial,  witty  Pico,  young  Palera  with  the 
dreamer's  face  and  poet's  soul,  each  doomed  to  die 
a  felon's  death  on  the  scaffold! 

Laden  with  a  new  weight  of  woe,  persistently 
the  words  of  the  Indian  crone,  fraught  with  a  more 
sinister  meaning,  echoed  through  his  burdened 
brain : 

"The  great  hearts  you  revere  shall  be  humbled 
— blood  shall  smear  your  path — sad  and  long 
is  the  way — your  heart  shall  be  crushed  as  by  a 
stone." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   RETURN   OP   THE   VICTORS 

"DY  the  river  bank  opposite  the  Paredon 
•*— '  Bluff  the  people  of  the  pueblo  were  waiting, 
laden  with  flowers, —  flowers  in  wreaths  and 
nosegays,  in  baskets  and  bouquets, — waiting  with 
fluttering  flags  and  gayly  improvised  banners, 
for  the  return  of  their  victorious  army  from  the 
camp  at  Palos  Verdes. 

When  two  weeks  before  a  courier  had  arrived 
with  news  of  the  victory  at  Dominguez  Ranch 
and  of  the  retreat  of  the  invaders,  great  had  been 
their  joy.  But  beneath  it  was  always  a  lurking 
fear  of  the  future,  a  fear  that  grew  almost  to  a 
certainty  when  they  learned,  a  few  days  later, 
that  the  American  commodore  had  arrived  and 
had  landed  his  men  on  the  beach.  But  yesterday, 
when  a  glad-faced,  breathless  messenger  had  raced 
madly  into  the  plaza  with  the  glorious  and  unex 
pected  tidings  that  the  three  American  ships 
had  sailed  away  to  the  south,  the  pueblo  went 
wild  with  joy. 

As  in  the  dim  far  ages  in  the  hills  of  old  Spain 
their  ancestors  had  waited  for  the  mail-clad 
knights  of  Aragon  and  Castile,  returning  victorious 
from  a  successful  foray  against  the  infidel  Moor, 

235 


236  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

so  waited  the  people  of  the  pueblo.  On  the 
worn  faces  of  the  old  men,  in  the  soft,  dark  eyes  of 
the  women,  was  the  light  of  joy  triumphant. 
For  once  again  the  noble  men  of  their  unconquer 
able  race — the  race  that  had  given  a  new  world  to 
man,  the  race  that  had  always  led  the  way  to  the 
untrodden  wilderness,  the  race  that  had  always 
been  in  the  forefront  of  the  age-long  battle  for  the 
Holy  Faith — had  met  the  enemy  in  the  deadly 
roar  of  battle  and  had  emerged  triumphant. 
They  wondered  now  that  they  had  ever  doubted. 
Clear  and  stirring  on  the  evening  air  burst  the 
melodious  thrill  of  a  bugle  call,  and  along  the 
top  of  the  low  mesa  beyond  the  river  appeared  a 
long  line  of  horsemen.  At  the  sight  of  the  waiting 
crowd  on  the  east  bank  their  cheers  swept  across 
the  chasm  of  the  river  bed.  Down  the  steep 
trail  south  of  the  Paredon  Bluff  the  horsemen 
scrambled,  and,  as  they  formed  in  columns  of  four 
on  the  opposite  bank,  Servolo  Palera,  riding  in 
the  van,  unslung  his  guitar  and  lifted  his  voice 
in  song — a  song  in  which  every  voice  joined: 

"The  tide  that  flowed  in  CorteV  veins, 

The  blood  of  conquering  Spain, 
The  race  that  won  these  hills  and  plains, 
Has  conquered  once  again. 

"Within  our  hearts  the  hope  is  strong, 

The  hope  that  cannot  die— 
For  right  has  triumphed  over  wrong 
Beneath  our  southern  sky. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  VICTORS    237 

"No  stranger  rules  our  fathers'  land, 

His  flag  in  dust  is  lain; 
No  more  we  bow  to  his  command, 
We  Sons  of  Ancient  Spain." 

Joyously,  triumphantly,  the  clear  soprano  voices 
of  the  women  on  the  opposite  bank  took  up  the 
glad  refrain,  for  by  this  time  the  verses  of  Servolo 
had  become  the  battle  hymn  of  the  revolution, 
and  were  known  to  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  in  the  pueblo. 

As  the  feet  of  the  horses  splashed  through  the 
shallow  water  the  waiting  women  rushed  forward. 
The  men  sprang  to  the  ground  and  enfolded  in 
their  arms  their  wives  and  sisters;  children  clung 
ecstatically  to  the  laced  pantaloons  of  their 
fathers,  clamoring  for  recognition  until  strong 
arms  grasped  them  and  tossed  them  high  in  the 
air.  Old  men,  their  faded  eyes  moist  with  pride, 
threw  their  arms  around  the  broad  shoulders 
of  their  stalwart  sons,  and  kissed  them  gravely 
on  both  cheeks.  With  flowers  wide-flung  they 
showered  them,  flowers  in  wreaths  and  garlands, 
thrown  about  the  necks  of  the  soldiers,  stuck  in 
the  bridles  of  the  horses,  set  in  musket  barrels, 
and  hung  on  the  point  of  every  shining  lance. 

In  all  that  joy-maddened  throng  there  was  no 
face  more  radiant  with  pride  than  that  of  Sefiora 
Arillo.  For  was  it  not  her  cannon — the  cannon 
of  the  church,  now  standing  by  the  water's  edge, 

16 


238  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

triumphantly  wreathed  with  blood-red  roses — 
that  had  sent  the  Americans  scuttling  back  to 
their  ships?  Was  it  not  her  husband,  Don  Jose 
Antonio,  who  had  commanded  the  detachment, 
and  her  son  Manuel  who  had  fired  the  gun? 

"Ah,  my  son,"  she  said,  with  a  little  sob  in  her 
throat,  "how  proud  I  am  of  thee!" 

He  stood  erect,  one  hand  grasping  the  long 
lance  staff,  the  other  arm  around  his  mother. 

"Not  so  proud,  mother,  as  I  am,  as  all  the  army 
is,  of  thee  and  thy  cannon.  It  is  the  greater 
pride  to  be  the  son  of  such  a  mother." 

Though  Loreto  Arillo's  face  was  tired  and 
worn,  there  was  gladness  in  her  eyes,  for  it  was 
indeed  joy  to  her  that  father  and  brothers  had  come 
home  unharmed  and  laden  with  glory.  Reso 
lutely,  with  the  patient  courage  of  her  race  and 
the  apparent  obedience  of  the  Spanish  woman, 
she  had  seemed  to  put  away  from  her  the  very 
thought  of  Carroll,  and  to-day  she  was  the  gayest 
and  gladdest  of  the  giddy  throng,  a  gayety  that 
was  half  real,  half  assumed,  to  hide  and  still  the 
heavy  ache  deep  down  in  her  heart.  Of  Carroll's 
escape  from  the  Paredon  Bluff  she  was  aware. 
The  news  had  been  brought  to  her  by  Father 
Estenaga  as  a  street  rumor,  but  the  old  man  had 
smiled  knowingly  as  he  told  the  tale. 

Jos6  came  striding  toward  her.  Bending  down, 
he  whispered  in  her  ear. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  VICTORS    239 

"He  is  safe,  sister  mine — I  saw  him.  He 
is  with  his  friends,  and  unharmed." 

As  Don  Jose  Antonio  dropped  from  his  horse 
his  searching  eyes  sought  out  Loreto. 

"Is  all  well  with  thee,  little  one?"  he  asked 
anxiously,  as  he  held  her  at  arm's  length,  closely 
scrutinizing  her  face. 

"All  is  well,  father,"  she  said  firmly. 

Her  eyes  met  his  bravely,  but  there  was  a 
piteous  little  tremor  about  her  mouth.  Don 
Jose  Antonio  understood,  and  with  a  sigh  he 
turned  away  to  meet  his  wife. 

Jose,  after  greeting  the  senora  in  his  grave, 
undemonstrative  fashion,  now  turned  aside,  seek 
ing  through  the  moving  crowd  for  a  glimpse  of 
the  familiar  figure  of  Delfina.  Catching  sight 
of  her,  he  drove  his  lance  head  into  the  ground 
and  hastened  to  her  side,  a  hopeful  light  in  his 
gray  eyes. 

She  noted  his  coming,  but  with  head  averted 
continued  her  gay  conversation.  She  had  been 
watching  him  furtively  for  fully  five  minutes,  but 
had  given  no  sign. 

"Ah,  Jos6,  back  again,  and  unharmed,"  she 
gibed,  as  she  took  his  hand.  "How  many  wicked 
Americans  hast  thou  slain  since  I  saw  thee  last? 
I  had  half  hoped  thou  wouldst  be  an  officer  by  this 
time.  What  shall  we  call  thee — major,  captain, 
or  is  it  commandant?  Where  are  thy  epaulets, 


24o  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

and  stars,  or  art  thou  carrying  water  for  the 
thirsty  soldiers  on  the  hot  days?" 

With  all  his  strange  youthful  dignity,  Jose  was 
keenly  sensitive.  His  teeth  met  his  lower  lip  in  an 
effort  to  still  its  trembling.  Then  he  answered 
in  a  bantering  tone,  much  like  her  own,  "I  still 
have  hopes,  Delfina.  The  war  is  young  yet. 
But  epaulets  and  officers'  commissions  do  not  grow 
on  every  bush,  to  be  had  for  the  picking." 

The  girl  looked  at  him,  startled.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  he  had  ever  made  an  effort  to 
pay  her  in  her  own  coin.  Her  face  changed, 
and  in  a  softened  voice  she  said  to  him,  half 
pleadingly,  her  eyes  beaming  full  upon  him, 
"Thou  wilt  come  home  of  course,  this  evening, 
with  the  Don  and  Manuel?" 

The  boy's  angry  flush  had  faded.  There  was 
a  set  expression  about  his  mouth  as  he  responded 
coolly,  "No,  Delfina,  I  shall  not  come  home 
until — well  thou  knowest — until  I  can  speak 
my  heart  to  the  Don.  I  ride  to-night  to  the  out 
post  north  of  the  Verdugo  Hills,  by  order  of 
Commandant  Flores." 

She  drew  a  little  nearer  to  him,  and  was  about 
to  speak,  when  the  bugle  blared  the  signal  to  fall 
in,  and  Jos£,  his  face  sad  but  his  head  held  high, 
took  his  place  in  the  ranks  of  the  cavalcade  as  it 
marched  up  the  long  orchard-embowered  street 
toward  the  plaza. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  VICTORS    241 

"Adios,  father;  I  leave  thee  now,"  he  said  to 
Arillo,  as  he  swung  his  horse  out  of  the  ranks. 

Don  Jos6  Antonio,  reaching  out,  caught  the 
boy's  bridle  rein,  and  following  Jose  turned  his 
horse  into  a  side  street. 

"Why  adios?  Art  thou  not  coming  home,  my 
son?"  ' 

"No;  I  ride  to  the  Verdugo  Hills  for  the  com 
mandant." 

"Wilt  thou  be  home  to-morrow?"  queried 
Arillo. 

"No,  I  am  under  a  vow,  father,"  he  said  "not 
to  return  home  till  a  certain  thing  comes  to  pass." 

Arillo's  grave  eyes  searched  the  boy's  face. 
It  was  nothing  new,  this  placing  of  oneself  under 
a  vow — a  voluntary  penance — among  those  of 
great  piety  and  devotion,  but  Jos£  had  never  been 
remarkable  for  either.  Could  the  boy  be  telling 
an  untruth?  Was  the  intended  absence  but  an 
excuse  for  some  youthful  folly?  Yet  Jos6  had 
never  lied  to  him. 

"Thou  wilt  give  me  thy  word,  Jos6,  that  it  is 
nothing  that  would  bring  thee  or  me  shame, — 
nothing  that  can  bring  dishonor  to  the  name  of 
Arillo?" 

"I  pledge  you  my  word,  father." 

His  big  honest  eyes  met  the  Don's  unflinchingly. 

"Then,  my  son,  I  trust  thee.  God  go  with 
thee." 


242  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

He  released  his  hold  on  the  bridle  rein,  and 
Jos6  disappeared  down  a  side  street,  on  his  way 
to  the  outpost  at  the  Verdugo  Hills. 

That  night,  wrapped  in  his  blanket,  lying  asleep 
beneath  an  oak,  there  came  to  him  again  the 
familiar  vision  of  the  days  of  his  babyhood. 
Once  more  he  gazed  at  the  dimly  remembered 
face  of  his  father,  seated  with  his  head  against 
the  background  of  the  flag.  Again,  with  bated 
breath  and  stealthy  step,  he  crept  forward  toward 
him.  So  near  he  came  that  he  could  almost 
touch  the  table.  Then  he  awoke. 

Above  him,  in  the  wide-spreading  branches, 
the  leaves  were  whispering  mysteriously  of  things 
far  beyond  the  ken  of  mortal  man;  still  and 
deathlike  were  the  forms  of  his  sleeping  comrades ; 
silent  as  the  tomb  was  the  gloomy  sweep  of 
inky  plain.  Sharply  silhouetted  against  the  great 
orb  of  the  rising  moon  a  lone  coyote,  with  upward 
pointed  nose,  howled  dismally. 

Trembling  with  the  sense  of  something  uncanny, 
overwhelmed  with  fear  of  the  unknown  force  that 
brought  him  its  nightly  message  of  mystery,  Jos6 
shuddered.  Then,  as  the  memory  of  his  father's 
face  came  to  him,  the  boy  sobbed  hopelessly  in 
the  folds  of  his  scrape. 

And  day  by  day,  Delfina  wept  and  prayed 
and  watched  for  the  lover  who  came  no  more. 

For  many  days  the  people  of  the  pueblo  of 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  VICTORS    243 

Our  Lady,  Queen  of  the  Angels,  held  fiesta. 
After  the  long,  forced  abstinence  from  all  gayety 
that  had  characterized  the  government  of  Gillie, 
the  town  gave  itself  up  for  a  whole  week  to  a  merry 
round  of  balls,  horse  races,  and  other  festivities. 
Late  into  the  night  the  homes  about  the  plaza 
resounded  with  the  gay  tinkling  of  guitars  and  the 
merry  patter  of  dancing  feet.  Through  the  open 
windows,  squares  of  golden  light  in  the  surrounding 
blackness,  came  the  low  sweet  laughter  of  women 
and  the  sound  of  joyous  singing. 

Everywhere  the  arms  of  the  Californians  were 
triumphant.  At  the  approach  of  Don  Manuel 
Garfias,  with  a  detachment  from  the  pueblo, 
Lieutenant  Talbot  and  his  small  company  of  ten 
men,  left  in  charge  at  Santa  Barbara,  escaped 
and  fled  to  the  mountains.  They  succeeded  in 
crossing  over  into  the  San  Joaquin  Valley,  and 
only  after  suffering  incredible  hardships  did  they 
reach  San  Francisco,  hungry,  worn,  and  ragged. 
San  Luis  Obispo  and  the  surrounding  district 
were  again  in  the  hands  of  the  Californians,  and 
daily  the  young  men  of  that  locality  were  riding 
into  the  pueblo  and  joining  the  forces  of  Flores. 

Fremont,  with  his  "Bears,"  was  reported 
somewhere  north  of  Monterey,  unable  to  move, 
without  powder  for  his  rifles  or  mounts  for  his 
men.  Into  the  mountains  and  out  of  his  reach 
had  been  driven  the  cattle  and  horses  of  the 


244  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

seacoast  ranches.  Stockton,  at  San  Diego,  was 
said  to  be  hard  pressed  by  a  superior  force  of 
Californians  and  Indians. 

By  every  dusty,  travel-stained  horseman,  ru 
mors  many  and  vague  reached  the  pueblo. 
England  had  declared  war  against  the  United 
States,  and  the  Mexicans  had  won  a  signal 
victory  on  the  Rio  Grande.  Strange  stories  were 
heard,  coming  from  no  one  knew  where,  that  the 
mother  nation,  though  sore  pressed  herself,  had 
at  last  harkened  to  the  cry  of  her  far-off  daughter, 
and  that  a  Mexican  army  under  Governor  Pio 
Pico  was  now  on  its  way  north  through  Sonora. 

For  a  few  days  the  escape  of  the  lieutenant 
remained  a  mystery,  and  then  was  speedily  for 
gotten.  The  peons,  filled  with  fear  of  the  Black 
Matador,  held  their  peace,  but  the  regular  guards 
in  charge  of  the  prisoners  admitted  that  they  had 
that  night  drunk  much  wine — wine  furnished  by 
an  unknown  hand — and  had  slept  at  their  post 
of  duty.  Flores,  flying  into  a  passion,  vowed 
vengeance  on  the  careless  sentinels.  But  the 
sudden  retreat  of  Stockton,  followed  by  the  week 
of  rejoicing,  drove  the  matter  from  his  mind. 
One  prisoner  more  or  less  mattered  little. 

Though  gladness  reigned  in  the  pueblo  at  the 
ever  welcome  news  that  trickled  in  from  the 
outside,  it  found  but  a  faint  echo  in  the  heart  of 
Loreto  Arillo.  The  excitement  attending  the 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  VICTORS    245 

return  of  the  army  and  the  subsequent  festivities 
died  away,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  grieving  girl 
turned  ever  to  the  southward,  where,  far  beyond 
the  hills  that  bounded  her  vision,  lived  and  moved 
among  the  enemies  of  her  people  the  man  to  whom 
she  had  given  all  the  first  love  of  her  woman's 
heart.  Day  by  day  love  and  duty  waged  bitter 
battle  within  her  soul.  Pityingly,  his  heart 
grieving  with  hers,  the  Don  watched  her  unceas 
ingly,  noting  her  downcast  eyes,  her  drooping 
mouth,  and  fading  cheeks.  In  the  dusk  of  the 
evening  on  the  wide,  vine-covered  veranda  she, 
knowing  that  he  understood,  would  creep  into  his 
arms  like  some  hurt  wild  thing,  and  silently 
lay  her  face  against  his  cheek.  His  own  eyes 
moist,  but  his  lips  silent,  for  there  was  naught  of 
comfort  he  could  utter,  the  father  could  feel  her 
slight  frame  quiver  in  a  storm  of  stifled  sobs  as 
she  lay  in  his  arms. 

During  the  long  hours  of  the  day,  under  the 
cold,  calm  gaze  of  the  senora  and  busy  with  the 
little  round  of  household  duties,  her  pride  held 
her  quivering  lips  still  and  set,  but  alone  in  the 
still  reaches  of  the  night  the  sorrow  that  wrung 
her  soul  gripped  her  close.  In  vivid  flashes  of 
memory  she  saw  the  laughing  blue  eyes  of  Carroll, 
the  straight  poise  of  his  manly  head,  and  heard 
the  echo  of  his  virile  voice.  Always  there  came 
to  her  the  horrid  remembrance  of  her  grief's 


246  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

beginning — the  night  of  the  clanking  chains — 
and  the  cruel  memory  of  Carroll's  agonized  face 
that  morning  by  the  river  when,  with  bloody 
head  and  shaking  limbs,  he  was  led  away  from 
her  across  the  stream. 

Then  she  would  rise,  clad  only  in  the  clinging 
virginal  garments  of  the  night,  her  feet  and  arms 
bare,  her  unbound  hair  a  tumbling  cataract  of 
black  over  her  white  shoulders,  and  steal  alone 
through  the  silent,  deserted  rooms  to  the  family 
chapel  in  the  rear  of  the  house.  There,  where 
the  candles  always  burned  brightly  before  the 
little  wax  statue  of  the  Madonna,  she  would  rest 
her  fevered  brow  against  the  cool  edge  of  the 
altar  and  pour  forth  her  heart's  cry  for  help. 

' '  Most  Holy  Virgin,  pray  for  me  that  I  may  learn 
to  forget  him.  Pray  God  that  He  may  forgive 
me  for  loving  him, — an  enemy  of  my  people. 
I  am  a  wicked  girl  to  do  so — but — I — I  love 
him — I  love  him  so!  Save  and  protect  him  from 
all  harm." 

Dreams  came  to  her,  clear  and  vivid.  Often 
she  was  in  Carroll's  arms,  basking  in  the  radiance 
of  his  wondrous  smile.  Then  in  the  far,  unseen 
distance  she  would  hear,  coming  nearer  and 
nearer,  the  rattle  of  chains  and  the  crackle  of 
musketry.  His  face  would  grow  pale  and  set, 
his  head  bruised  and  bloody,  and  he  would  be 
snatched  from  her  by  unearthly  arms  reaching 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  VICTORS    247 

out  of  the  blackness.  Then  she  would  wake  to 
the  misery  of  the  present,  to  sob  alone  till  the 
dim  radiance  of  the  dawn  lightened  the  latticed 
window. 

In  the  pueblo,  life  swung  back  to  its  wonted 
way.  Gone  was  the  scorching  summer  heat,  to 
be  followed  by  a  long  succession  of  days  bright 
with  the  strange,  cool  sunshine  of  the  California 
autumn.  The  fall  rains,  early  this  year,  were 
already  greening  the  brown  of  the  hills  and  each 
morning  wrapping  the  distant  mountains  in  a 
fairy  veil  of  misty  blue. 

Down  by  the  stream,  no  longer  shrunken  by 
summer  drought  but  flowing  wide  and  full, 
where  the  vineyards  and  orchards  stretched  in 
irregular  patches  of  green  and  brown,  the  peons 
and  Indians  were  busy  as  of  old.  The  ripe 
purple  grapes  hung  in  heavy  clusters  on  the  low, 
close-cropped  vines,  and  men  sang  as  they  filled 
the  heavy  baskets. 

On  the  hill  above  the  plaza  still  stood  the 
flagstaff  erected  by  Gillie,  but  from  it  drooped 
now  the  Mexican  tricolor.  To  Don  Augustin 
Alvaro  it  was  not  an  unpleasant  sight,  and  he 
often  sat  at  the  end  of  the  veranda  where  his 
eye  could  catch  it,  as  it  lifted  lazily  in  the  vagrant 
breeze.  To  him,  as  to  all  the  people  of  the 
pueblo,  the  memory  of  Gillie  and  his  rough 
frontiersmen  seemed  but  a  fantastic  dream  that 


248  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

for  a  few  short  months  had  broken  the  even 
tenor  of  their  lives.  But  as  he  gazed  at  the  flag 
he  sighed,  a  sigh  which,  if  not  despairing,  was 
still  not  at  all  expressive  of  the  high  hopes  that 
animated  the  hearts  of  the  majority  of  the 
Californians. 

Don  Francisco  de  la  Guerra,  a  portly,  cheery 
man  of  middle  age  seated  opposite  him  on  the 
veranda,  looked  at  Don  Augustin  inquiringly. 
De  la  Guerra  was  a  confirmed  and  incurable 
optimist,  and  he  wondered  at  Alvaro's  lack  of 
enthusiasm. 

' '  Bah ! "  he  said,  as  he  straightened  his  shoulders. 
"We  of  the  race  of  Cortez,  the  race  that  discovered 
and  explored  the  new  world,  can  it  be  that  we 
shall  fear  the  Americans,  and  they  but  mere 
money-getters  and  laborers?  Never!  The 
matchless  courage  of  our  people  still  lives  and 
shall  conquer.  They  will  never  come  back. 
Impossible." 

Don  Augustin 's  keen  eyes  crinkled  up  into 
something  akin  to  a  smile. 

"But  how  they  can  shoot,  Don  Francisco,  those 
bandoleros  of  Gillie!  Jesus!  They  could  shoot 
the  eyelashes  from  a  gopher,  and  he  running  in 
the  moonlight.  For  Dios,  yes." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   BATTLE   IN   THE   DARK 

"'VTOUR  eyes  are  better  than  mine,  lieutenant; 
•*•  see  if  you  can  find  them.  They  should  be 
somewhere  hereabouts."  Captain  Gillie  handed 
the  glass  to  Lieutenant  Carroll. 

The  two  officers,  in  command  of  forty  mounted 
frontiersmen,  were  eagerly  scanning  the  landscape 
in  search  of  General  Kearney  and  his  party,  who 
were  reported  to  be  on  their  way  to  San  Diego. 

Reinforcements  were  at  last  coming  to  Stockton 
at  San  Diego,  but  they  were  far  from  the  over 
whelming  force  he  had  expected  and  the  Cali- 
fornians  had  feared. 

General  Kearney  had  started  from  Fort  Leaven- 
worth  with  fifteen  hundred  dragoons,  but  meeting 
on  the  Santa  F6  trail  the  famous  scout,  Kit  Carson, 
who  had  been  sent  east  by  Stockton  with  news  of 
the  complete  and  peaceful  conquest  of  California 
and  of  the  occupation  of  Los  Angeles,  Kearney 
had  decided  that  his  large  force  was  not  needed. 

"There  they  come,  captain,  down  that  gulch 
to  the  east,"  said  Carroll  as  he  returned  the  glass. 

With  a  welcoming  cheer  the  frontiersmen 
galloped  up  the  slope,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the 
two  parties  were  exchanging  congratulations. 

249 


25o  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Hardly  a  hundred  men  were  with  Kearney. 
The  greater  part  of  his  force  he  had  sent  back,  and 
had  scattered  the  rest  as  garrisons  in  Arizona  and 
New  Mexico,  reserving  only  the  small  escort  of 
dragoons,  with  two  mountain  howitzers.  Scout 
Carson,  with  his  bodyguard  of  three  Delaware 
Indians,  had  returned  with  Kearney's  party  to 
guide  it  through  the  wilderness  of  the  Colorado 
basin. 

Burnt  brown  by  desert  suns,  gaunt  and  ema 
ciated  from  privation,  were  Kearney's  men. 
Nearly  half  of  them  were  on  foot ;  the  others,  with 
the  exception  of  the  officers,  were  mounted  on 
broken-down  mules.  The  horses  of  the  expedition 
had  been  unable  to  withstand  the  terrific  strain 
of  the  march  across  the  Colorado  desert.  Curi 
ously  the  soldiers  stared  at  the  buckskin  shirts 
and  unmilitary  garb  of  the  frontiersmen,  who 
returned  the  stare,  amusement  showing  in  their 
faces  as  they  noted  the  dimmed  brilliancy  of  the 
once  gaudy  dragoon  uniforms. 

The  news  of  the  revolt  of  the  Californians,  as 
Gillie  recounted  it  to  Kearney,  was  but  little  of  a 
surprise.  Letters  taken  from  a  captured  Mexican, 
a  few  days  before,  had  told  him  that  the  conquest 
had  proved  abortive,  and  during  the  last  few  days 
the  march  of  the  Americans  had  been  closely 
watched  by  mounted  men  from  the  neighboring 
heights. 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  DARK   251 

"Captain  Gillie,  what  do  you  know  of  the 
enemy,  his  numbers  and  position?"  asked  General 
Kearney.  He  was  a  full-eyed,  kindly-faced  man, 
and  he  puffed  energetically  at  a  short  black  pipe 
as  he  spoke. 

"About  a  hundred  and  sixty  men,  under  Don 
Andreas  Pico.  I  believe  they  have  headquarters 
at  the  Santa  Isabel  Rancho  near  the  Indian  village 
of  San  Pascual." 

"Well,"  said  the  general  slowly,  "we  did  not 
come  two  thousand  miles  to  be  kept  out  of  San 
Diego  at  the  last  moment.  I  am  not  overly 
anxious  for  a  fight,  but  we  are  going  through  to 
the  town.  We  will  make  a  night  attack." 

"Issue  instructions,"  he  said,  turning  to  his 
orderly,  "to  have  everything  in  readiness  to 
march  an  hour  before  sunrise." 

No  bugle  blared  to  awaken  the  sleepers  in  the 
American  camp  that  chilly  morning  of  Decem 
ber  6,  1846.  A  touch  on  the  shoulder,  a  whis 
pered  word  in  the  darkness,  and  the  weary, 
rain-soaked  men,  springing  to  their  feet,  swallowed 
a  few  mouthfuls  of  food,  mounted  their  horses, 
and  moved  silently  down  the  road  through  the 
dense  blackness  of  the  night.  Thirty  men  were 
left  behind  to  guard  the  baggage,  with  instructions 
to  move  forward  as  rapidly  as  possible. 

It  was  bitterly  cold,  cold  with  the  damp, 
penetrating  chill  of  the  California  winter  morning. 


252  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

The  chattering  of  the  men's  teeth  could  be  heard, 
with  the  jingling  of  the  sabers  and  the  creak  of 
the  gun  wheels,  as  they  trotted  on  through  the 
fog-laden  gloom. 

Carroll,  riding  close  behind  Kearney  and  Gillie 
past  the  low  adobes  of  the  Indian  village  of  San 
Pascual,  was  silent  and  thoughtful.  Dimly  he 
could  see  ahead  of  him  the  big  white  horse  ridden 
by  Captain  Johnston,  who,  with  a  dozen  dragoons, 
composed  the  advance  guard.  Soldier-like,  the 
lieutenant  thrilled  at  the  thought  of  the  coming 
conflict,  yet  there  was  sadness  in  his  soul,  for 
somewhere  in  the  all-enveloping  darkness  about 
him  were  the  courtly  men  of  the  pueblo, — the 
quaint  Alvaro,  the  jovial  Don  Andreas,  Palera  to 
whom  he  owed  his  life,  and  probably  Don  Jos6 
Antonio  Arillo,  the  father  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

He  peered  ahead  into  the  gloom,  but  could 
discern  neither  sight  nor  sound  of  Johnston  and  his 
men.  They  had  drawn  far  ahead. 

Discordantly  a  rattle  of  shots  and  red  flashes 
of  flame  cut  into  the  softened  stillness  of  the  night. 
He  heard  a  stentorian  voice  ordering  the  charge, 
then  cries  of  dismay,  the  screams  of  wounded 
horses,  and  the  clatter  of  steel. 

Hurriedly,  Kearney,  Gillie,  and  the  little  band 
of  dragoons  about  them  spurred  their  mounts 
forward.  In  an  instant  Carroll,  saber  in  hand, 
found  himself  in  the  midst  of  the  melee.  Around 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  DARK        253 

him  on  every  side  were  the  forms  of  mounted  men, 
half  seen  in  the  darkness, —  forms  lunging  and 
stabbing  at  them  with  the  long,  needle-pointed 
lances.  The  dragoon  at  his  right  fired  his  pistol, 
and  then,  clutching  frantically  at  the  lance  point 
that  had  entered  his  breast,  reeled  backward 
from  his  horse. 

An  order  shouted  in  Spanish,  and  in  a  twinkling 
the  Americans  found  themselves  alone.  The 
Californians  had  vanished  as  quickly  as  they 
had  appeared,  the  muffled  thunder  of  their  hoof- 
beats  dying  away  in  the  black  wall  ahead. 

"After  them,  boys!  They  won't  stand!" 
shouted  Captain  Moore,  who  rode  at  Carroll's 
left. 

As  they  dashed  on  in  a  mad  gallop  the  lieuten 
ant  glanced  back  uneasily.  The  sun  was  rising, 
and  objects  could  now  be  discerned  more  distinctly, 
but  to  his  amazement  there  was  no  sign  of  the  main 
body  of  the  dragoons.  Instead,  twenty  or  thirty 
of  Kearney's  men,  who  had  dropped  behind  on 
their  wretched  mounts,  were  scattered  in  groups 
of  twos  and  threes  along  the  road,  flogging  and 
spurring  their  mules  in  a  vain  effort  to  reach  the 
scene  of  hostilities. 

Another  scattering  volley  down  the  road,  and 
a  voice  called  out  in  agony,  "For  God's  sake, 
men,  come  up!  Come  up!" 

Yells,  groans,  and  the  angry  clink  of  steel  were 

17 


254  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

straight  ahead  of  them.  The  Californians  had 
turned,  and  were  again  attacking  the  advance 
guard. 

In  a  ring  around  the  two  cannon,  the  officers 
and  men  of  the  advance  and  Kearney's  small 
party  were  making  an  heroic  stand.  Like  clinging 
smoke  wreaths  the  fog  wrapped  their  shifting 
forms  as  they  battled  horse  against  horse,  man 
against  man,  sword  against  lance  shaft. 

Gillie,  fighting  manfully  by  Carroll's  side, 
cleverly  avoided  a  lance  thrust  and  drove  his 
sword  through  a  Californian's  arm.  Then  a 
lance  point  struck  him  full  in  the  mouth,  knock 
ing  him  from  his  horse.  Whatever  his  oddities, 
Captain  Gillie  was  a  man  of  magnificent  personal 
courage.  Springing  to  his  feet,  his  face  streaming 
blood,  he  continued  the  unequal  struggle  on  foot. 

In  the  midst  of  the  press  of  lunging  men  and 
rearing  horses,  Carroll  himself  was  busy  parrying 
the  steel-tipped  point  that  was  thrust  at  him  again 
and  again.  Rising  in  his  stirrups,  he  sent  his 
horse  forward,  and  ignoring  the  sting  of  steel  in 
his  thigh,  he  brought  his  saber  down,  shearing  the 
wooden  shaft  in  twain.  In  an  instant  his  antag 
onist  had  drawn  his  sword,  and  as  their  horses 
sidled  together  their  blades  crossed.  The  lieuten 
ant  was  face  to  face  with  Servolo  Palera. 

For  a  moment  their  swords  slithered  along 
their  lengths.  Carroll,  with  the  fine  sense  of 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  DARK        255 

touch  of  the  true  swordsman,  felt  that  he  was 
easily  master. 

"Surrender,  Senor  Palera.     I  cannot — " 

"No,  no,"  panted  Servolo,  as  he  gave  way  before 
Carroll's  onslaught.  "No,  no;  we  are  soldiers 
now,  friend  Carroll." 

As  Servolo 's  sword  flew  from  his  hand,  Carroll 
saw  dimly  above  the  Californian's  head  the  butt 
of  an  upraised  musket.  Lifting  his  steed  forward, 
he  interposed  his  saber.  Quick  enough  he  was 
to  divert  but  not  to  stop  the  blow.  The  musket 
fell  on  the  shoulder  of  Palera,  knocking  him  from 
his  horse. 

The  owner  of  the  musket,  one  of  Carson's 
Indians,  dropped  to  the  ground,  seized  the  rifle, 
and  again  raised  it  above  his  head  when  Carroll, 
who  had  already  dismounted,  drove  his  fist  in 
the  fellow's  face. 

"Harm  him,  you  red-skinned  devil,  and,  by 
God,  I  will  kill  you!"  he  yelled. 

It  was  full  morning  now,  but  dim  and  misty. 
A  group  of  Californians,  some  yards  distant, 
were  yelling  with  glee  as  they  galloped  off  with 
one  of  the  howitzers  attached  to  the  riatas  from 
their  saddles.  About  the  remaining  gun  the 
fight  was  still  on.  Half  of  the  saddles  of  the 
Americans  were  empty,  the  horses  standing 
stock  still,  stupidly  trembling  in  every  limb,  or 
galloping  riderless  about  the  plain.  Wounded 


256  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

men,  all  of  them  Americans,  seemed  to  be  every 
where,  groaning  in  pain,  and  crawling  from  under 
the  feet  of  the  frenzied  horses. 

Captain  Moore,  ahead  of  Carroll,  gasped  as  if 
in  surprise,  and  the  lieutenant  glimpsed  the 
handbreadth  of  a  lance  point  protruding  from 
between  his  shoulders  as  he  went  backward  out  of 
the  saddle. 

Again  the  quick,  sharp  order  in  Spanish,  and 
once  more  the  splendid  mounts  of  the  enemy  bore 
them  swiftly  out  of  reach.  A  moment  later,  with 
a  wild  cheer,  the  main  body  of  the  dragoons  gal 
loped  up,  but  too  late  to  take  any  part  in  the 
fight.  The  Californians  had  abandoned  the  field. 

The  Americans  were  nominal  victors,  but  at 
what  a  cost!  Of  the  sixty-five  dragoons  and 
frontiersmen  actively  engaged,  one  half  were 
hors  de  combat.  On  the  ground  about  the  remain 
ing  cannon,  and  along  the  winding  trail,  lay 
thirteen  dead  and  eighteen  wounded,  among  the 
latter  Captain  Gillie  and  General  Kearney.  Not  a 
single  Californian,  dead  or  wounded,  was  to  be  seen. 

In  the  dim  light  of  the  misty  dawn,  Kearney's 
face  was  drawn  and  haggard. 

"God!  This  is  awful!"  he  said,  as  he  surveyed 
the  field. 

"Take  twenty  men,  lieutenant,  and  the  best 
horses,  and  ride  back  at  once.  They  may  attack 
the  baggage  guard." 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  DARK   257 

As  Carroll  with  his  party  galloped  back  through 
the  village,  he  noted  the  stalwart  form  of  Captain 
Johnston,  the  handsome  officer  at  whose  merry 
jests  he  had  laughed  the  night  before,  lying  stiff  in 
death,  his  sword  still  in  his  clenched  hand,  a 
blackened  hole  in  the  middle  of  his  forehead. 
Close  behind  lay  a  dragoon,  shot  through  the 
heart.  Both  had  fallen  in  the  first  onslaught  of  the 
Californians.  The  half -naked  body  of  the  soldier, 
and  the  broken  links  of  a  watchchain  hanging 
to  Johnston's  doublet,  told  that  the  work  of 
looting  had  already  been  begun  by  the  Indians 
in  the  ranks  of  the  enemy. 

The  Californians  made  no  further  attack. 
During  the  long  day,  a  day  of  chilling,  drizzling 
rain,  the  Americans,  sobered  by  the  unexpected 
revelation  of  the  righting  qualities  of  the  enemy, 
gathered  their  dead  and  tended  to  their  wounded, 
who  were  placed  in  a  camp  hospital  on  the  top 
of  a  hillock. 

In  the  still  hours  of  the  night  the  lance-pierced 
bodies  of  the  dead  were  laid  to  rest  under  a 
drooping  willow,  their  only  requiem  the  long- 
drawn  howling  of  the  distant  wolves.  Above 
them,  as  if  in  sympathy,  the  inky  sky  wept 
steadily.  Bowed  with  grief,  about  the  unseen 
graves  were  the  sorrowing  men,  silent  save  where 
a  strong  man  choked  back  a  sob  as  the  clay 
fell  on  the  faces  of  the  comrades  they  had  all 


258  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

learned  to  know  and  to  love  far  beyond  the 
manner  of  men — the  comrades  who  had  shared 
with  them  the  chilling  cold  of  mountain  nights, 
the  days  of  blistering  desert  sun,  the  perils  and 
privations  of  the  long  march  of  two  thousand  miles. 

Carroll  sighed.  More  blood,  and  still  more — 
would  it  never  end?  Even  should  Kearney 
supersede  Stockton,  an  event  he  had  looked  for 
ward  to  with  hope,  still  there  would  be  no  mercy 
now  for  the  men  of  the  broken  paroles. 

"How  truly  she  spoke,  that  accursed  witch,"  he 
thought,  as  her  prophetic  words  echoed  in  his 
memory:  "Blood  shall  smear  your  path,  shall 
smear  your  path." 

As  the  lieutenant  and  the  burial  party  returned 
to  the  camp  on  the  rock-strewn  hillock,  he  heard 
the  click  of  picks  and  the  scuffle  of  shovels  in  the 
sand.  Kearney's  men  were  digging  for  water  to 
assuage  the  raging  thirst  of  their  wounded,  whose 
moans  could  be  heard  in  the  darkness.  On  the 
rock-covered  hilltop  there  was  hardly  a  spot  where 
they  could  lie  in  comfort.  One  dragoon,  a  stal 
wart  sergeant,  was  in  the  last  agonies  of  death. 
Dr.  Griffin,  the  surgeon  of  the  expedition,  was 
busy,  as  he  had  been  all  day,  with  the  injured  men. 
Only  a  few  mouthfuls  of  hardtack  and  dried  beef 
were  left  in  the  knapsacks  of  the  soldiers. 

Carroll's  first  thought  was  for  Palera.  Much 
to  his  relief,  he  found  that  beyond  a  severely 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  DARK        259 

bruised  shoulder  Servolo  was  unharmed.  As  the 
Calif ornian  smilingly  answered  the  lieutenant's 
anxious  inquiry,  he  shivered  with  cold. 

"Half  of  my  blanket  is  yours,  Servolo,"  said 
Carroll.  "Let  us  lie  close  for  greater  warmth." 

Wrapped  close  together  in  the  same  blanket, 
the  two  men  who,  but  a  few  hours  before,  had 
sought  each  other's  lives  lay  silent  for  a  space. 
Between  the  lugubrious  howls  of  the  coyotes  on 
the  plains  they  could  hear  about  them  the  piteous 
groans  of  the  wounded  men.  The  big  man  a  few 
feet  away  gasped  loudly,  and  the  death  rattle  in 
his  throat  told  that  the  end  had  come.  The 
night  had  cleared,  and  mockingly  in  the  black 
vault  above,  the  cheerful  stars  smiled  down  upon 
them. 

The  two  men,  lying  silent  side  by  side,  were 
staring  into  each  other's  eyes.  Carroll  was  the 
first  to  speak. 

"I  owe  you  much,  Senor  Palera — much  that 
cannot  be  repaid  with  words." 

"But  nobly  have  you  already  repaid  it,  friend 
Carroll." 

"General  Kearney  has  just  promised  me  that 
you  will  be  exchanged  early  in  the  morning," 
went  on  the  lieutenant,  "and  after  the  war  is 
over  perhaps — perhaps — there  may  be  much 
that  I  can  do." 

Servolo's  eyes  glistened  in  the  firelight,  but  he 


260  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

sighed  wearily  and  shook  his  head.  The  strange 
presentiment  that  had  haunted  him  night  and 
day,  a  presentiment  that  he  would  never  live  to 
see  the  ending  of  the  war,  was  now  strong  upon 
him.  For  more  than  a  month  he  had  been  as  one 
waiting  and  watching  for  the  corning  of  death. 

"I  thank  thee,  friend  Carroll,"  he  responded 
with  a  wan  smile.  "Glad  will  I  be,  of  course,  to 
rejoin  my  comrades,  but  beyond  that  there  is 
naught  that  thou  couldst  do — that  any  one 
could  do — for  me." 

The  utter  hopelessness  in  Servolo's  whisper 
awoke  a  throb  of  sympathy  in  Carroll's  kindly 
heart.  But  he  forbore  questioning. 

"Senor  Carroll,"  said  Palera  suddenly,  "do 
you  love  her  truly — with  the  love  of  an  honorable 
man?  In  the  name  of  the  angels  and  the  saints, 
answer  me  truthfully.  This  means  everything 
to  me." 

The  question  came  from  Servolo's  lips  with 
un-Castilian  directness. 

Carroll  started,  then  without  hesitation  he 
answered,  firmly  and  gravely,  "By  my  hope  of 
Heaven,  I  do,  Servolo." 

"It  is  well.  Doubting  you,  I  could  kill  you 
as  you  sleep,  but  believing  you,  I  am  happy — as 
happy  as  a  broken  heart  can  be." 

Within  the  closely  wrapped  blanket  Palera 
grasped  the  American's  hand  and  pressed  it 


THE  BATTLE  IN  THE  DARK        261 

quietly.  He  sighed  again,  and  laying  his  arm 
across  the  other,  drew  closer  to  him  in  the  chill 
night. 

Surrounded  by  the  dead  and  dying,  slumbered, 
the  two  men  their  arms  about  each  other, — 
two  men  whose  hearts  were  throbbing  with  love 
for  a  weeping  woman  in  the  distant  pueblo  of 
Our  Lady,  Queen  of  the  Angels. 

Lower  and  dimmer  smouldered  the  camp  fires 
on  the  hillock.  Over  the  wide,  gray  world 
brooded  the  starlit  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
restless  movements  of  the  watchful  sentries. 

Borne  softly  on  the  night  wind  came  the  shuffling 
tramp  of  many  feet,  the  clink  of  accouterments, 
the  sound  of  voices. 

"To  arms!  To  arms!"  shouted  a  sentinel.  The 
shrill  alarm  of  the  bugle  in  an  instant  transformed 
the  sleeping  camp  into  a  scene  of  frantic  activity. 

"Who  goes  there?"  bawled  a  dragoon,  as  he 
peered  down  the  slope. 

"Friends — relief  from  San  Diego,"  came  a 
reassuring  shout  from  the  hollow. 

Even  the  wounded  joined  weakly  in  the  exultant 
cheers  that,  sweeping  over  the  plain,  told  the 
Californians  on  the  hills  that  Commodore  Stock 
ton's  reinforcements  had  eluded  their  careless 
sentries  and  were  now  sharing  the  contents  of 
their  well-filled  haversacks  with  the  hungry  and 
dispirited  men  of  Kearney's  command. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

VANUELA   STRIKES 

TN  anticipation  of  the  coming  of  Fremont,  who 
•*•  was  reported  to  be  moving  slowly  south,  the 
Californians  had  taken  a  position  ten  miles  north 
of  the  pueblo,  near  the  Verdugo  ranch  house. 

Hugo  Vanuela,  seated  sideways  in  his  saddle, 
was  idly  watching  the  cavalry  squadrons  practicing 
field  evolutions  on  the  plain  below.  At  the  word 
of  command,  their  well-trained  steeds  formed  into 
a  long  line  four  deep,  and  with  leveled  lances  they 
charged  on  the  imaginary  foe.  Feigning  flight, 
their  broken  squads  suddenly  reunited,  swung 
around  in  two  long  curves,  and  completely 
surrounded  the  supposed  enemy.  Ever  on  the 
flanks  of  the  columns  whirled  the  cannons  at  the 
riatas'  ends.  But  the  senora's  gun  was  no  longer 
alone.  Two  others  of  Castro's  guns  had  been 
discovered  and  unspiked,  and  Arillo  now  com 
manded  a  battery  of  four  pieces,  one  of  them 
the  mountain  howitzer  captured  from  General 
Kearney  at  San  Pascual. 

During  the  last  two  months  Vanuela  had 
succeeded  in  communicating  several  times  with 
Commodore  Stockton  at  San  Diego.  By  means 
of  one  of  his  Indian  scouts  he  had  forwarded  to  the 

262 


VANUELA  STRIKES  263 

American  commander  a  complete  and  accurate 
statement  of  the  numbers  and  resources  of  the 
Californians.  During  these  exchanges  he  lost  no 
opportunity  of  inflaming  the  mind  of  the  commo 
dore  against  Don  Jose  Antonio  Arillo,  whom  he 
pictured  as  the  originator  of  the  revolt  and  relent 
less  in  his  hatred  of  everything  American. 

But  Hugo's  mind  at  the  present  moment  was 
far  more  occupied  with  the  folded  papers  in  his 
hand  than  with  past  events  or  with  the  galloping 
squadrons  on  the  plain  below.  The  commandant 
had  just  instructed  him  to  select  a  capable  man  to 
carry  dispatches  to  Don  Jesus  Pico  at  San  Luis 
Obispo. 

Vanuela  was  pondering  the  problem.  He  was 
quite  willing,  even  anxious,  that  the  document 
which  announced  in  grandiloquent  terms  the  vic 
tory  at  San  Pascual  should  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  Americans.  He  would  have  ridden  with 
them  himself,  and  thus  insured  their  delivery  to 
Fremont,  but  it  was  plain  that  he  could  not  leave 
the  pueblo  at  present.  MacNamara  was  becoming 
importunate  in  his  demands.  He  had  intrusted  to 
Vanuela  the  work  of  obtaining  signatures  to  the 
petition  addressed  to  the  British  commodore  at 
Santa  Barbara.  Only  yesterday  an  Indian  had 
galloped  from  San  Gabriel,  where  the  supposed 
Spaniard,  at  Flores'  command,  had  taken  full 
charge  of  the  powder  making,  with  a  note  for 


264  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Vanuela  requesting,  even  demanding,  that  Hugo 
report  to  him  at  once  with  definite  information  of 
the  progress  he  was  making.  The  Englishman 
was  becoming  decidedly  troublesome.  He  would 
have  to  be  placated  in  some  way. 

Absorbed  in  thought,  Hugo  failed  to  notice  the 
approach  of  Jos6  Arillo,  who,  mounted  on  a 
spirited  white  horse,  had  trotted  up  behind  him. 
As  his  glance  met  the  gaze  of  the  boy,  there 
flashed  on  him  the  memory  of  the  manner  in 
which  the  youngster  had  foiled  his  attempt  to 
lance  the  American  officer  at  Dominguez.  Hugo 
licked  his  lips  wolfishly,  and  his  face  lit  with  cruel 
grimness. 

"The  young  dog!"  he  muttered.  "Him  will 
I  send.  If  the  Americans  catch  him,  he  will  die, 
even  as  Arillo  is  to  die."  But  his  spoken  greeting 
was  unusually  courteous. 

Jos6,  at  Vanuela's  unwonted  graciousness,  reined 
up  his  horse  expectantly. 

"Even  now  I  was  about  to  send  for  you,  Senor 
Arillo,"  said  Hugo  deferentially.  "Commandant 
Flores  had  instructed  me  to  select  a  man — a 
capable,  cautious  man  and  a  good  rider — to 
perform  a  great  service  for  the  government. 
None  better  could  I  call  to  mind  than  thee." 

"You  honor  me  greatly,  Senor  Don  Hugo," 
replied  the  boy,  not  to  be  outdone  in  courtesy. 
But  his  big  gray  eyes  were  scrutinizing  the  other 


VANUELA  STRIKES  265 

carefully.  "I  shall  indeed  be  glad  to  be  of 
service  to  the  country.  What  is  the  mission?" 

"I  wish  to  be  honest  with  you,  Senor  Arillo," 
Vanuela  continued.  "The  service  is  not  without 
danger.  The  commandant  wishes  to  send  these 
papers,  announcing  the  victory  at  San  Pascual, 
to  Don  Jesus  Pico  at  San  Luis  Obispo.  The  man 
who  succeeds  in  placing  them  in  the  hands  of 
Don  Jesus  will  win  honor,  fame,  and  a  great  name 
for  himself.  Do  you  volunteer?" 

At  Vanuela's  last  words  an  eager  look  came  into 
the  boy's  face.  He  removed  his  sombrero,  and 
with  the  other  hand  brushed  back  from  his  brow 
the  hanging  lock  of  ruddy  hair.  Then  he  answered 
quickly : 

"Surely  will  I  go,  Senor  Vanuela." 

"Good!"  Hugo  handed  him  the  dispatches. 

Jose  hesitated.  "May  I  not  ride  to  the  pueblo 
and  notify  my  father?  It  will  take  but  little 
time,"  he  pleaded. 

"No,  no,"  objected  Vanuela  hastily.  "Speed 
is  of  great  importance.  You  must  take  the  road 
at  once.  The  commandant's  orders  are  that  no 
one  must  know — no  one.  I  myself  will  notify 
Don  Jose  Antonio  for  thee." 

Still  Jose  hesitated.  Vanuela,  through  his 
narrowed  eyelids,  was  closely  scanning  the  boy's 
face. 

"For  Dios,"  he  broke  out  haughtily,  "return  to 


266  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

me  the  papers.     I  will  seek  another  messenger- 
one  who  does  not  set  terms  and  conditions." 

"No,  no;  I  will  ride  at  once,"  replied  the 
boyish  victim.  "Adios,  senor." 

He  shook  Vanuela's  hand,  swung  his  snow- 
white  steed  about,  and  galloped  away.  For  the 
memory  of  Delfina's  stinging  words,  "carrying 
water  for  the  soldiers,"  returned  to  him  with  force. 
Ah !  Now  would  she  see  what  his  superiors  thought 
of  him !  When  he  returned,  crowned  with  success, 
honored  by  the  commandant  and  the  whole  army, 
how  proud  she  would  be  of  him! 

As  he  galloped  on  through  the  cool  morning 
sunshine  his  heart  echoed  to  the  sound  of  his 
horse's  hoofs,  ever  beating  out  the  words  of  the 
thoughtless  girl.  "Win  a  great  name — win  a 
great  name." 

But  one  thought  clouded  his  happiness — a 
regret  that  he  could  not  have  told  Don  Jose 
Antonio  of  his  good  fortune  and  obtained  his 
consent. 

At  that  very  moment  the  Don  himself,  seated 
in  the  large  living  room  of  his  home,  his  military 
garb  soiled  and  spattered,  was  listening  to  the 
petulant  words  of  his  wife. 

"Dios  de  mi  alma,"  she  grumbled,  "can  the  boy 
be  possessed  of  an  evil  spirit?  Again  and  again, 
I  have  been  told,  he  has  ridden  into  the  pueblo 
from  the  camp  at  the  Verdugos,  but  never  comes 


VANUELA  STRIKES  267 

he  to  the  house.  Night  and  day  Delfina  cries. 
Holy  Virgin — as  if  one  weeping  woman  in  the 
house  were  not  enough!" 

"Delfina!"  There  was  sudden  comprehension 
in  Arillo's  voice.  "Ah,  mother,  mother,  we  have 
been  blind.  That  is  it, — a  lover's  quarrel;  the 
young  folks  love  one  another." 

"Bah,  no;  that  would  not  keep  him  away.  It 
would  bring  him  here.  Yet,"  she  mused,  "he 
has  many  strange  ways;  he  is  not  like  us.  One 
cannot  tell." 

Delfina,  an  unwilling  listener  in  the  next  room, 
heard  the  Don's  even  voice. 

"Jose  told  me  on  his  word  of  honor  that  he  was 
under  a  vow  not  to  return  home  until  a  certain 
thing  had  come  to  pass.  Caramba !  We  have  had 
enough  of  this  mystery.  He  shall  tell  me  at 
once,"  he  added,  a  little  impatiently. 

The  girl  in  the  next  room  sat  motionless  as  the 
door  closed  behind  Arillo.  Jos6  under  a  vow! 
Well  she  understood — a  vow  not  to  see  her. 
Sobbing  silently,  she  threw  herself  on  her  bed. 
Oh,  why  could  he  not  be  like  other  men,  men  who, 
though  scorned  and  rebuffed,  had  again  and 
again  sung  at  her  window,  and  made  public 
profession  of  their  love  at  balls  by  casting  their 
sombreros  at  her  feet,  men  who  had  borne  her 
flaunting  with  smiling  patience  and  redoubled 
protestations  of  devotion?  Face  to  face  with 


268  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

such  un-Castilian  stubbornness,  the  girl  was 
astounded  and  mystified. 

Wiping  her  eyes,  she  hurried  to  the  little 
chapel.  Sinking  on  her  knees,  she  looked  long 
and  reverently  at  the  statue  of  the  Madonna. 
How  happy  she  looked!  To  the  girl's  super 
heated  imagination,  the  fruit  of  weeks  of  worry, 
the  waxen  lips  seemed  to  curve  in  a  calm,  con 
tented  smile. 

"Ah,"  she  sobbed,  reaching  out  her  open  hand 
protestingly,  "you  may  smile — you  have  had  all 
your  heart  desires — you  have  your  nene.  You 
smile — you  do  not  care.  And  I  have  prayed  to 
you,  night  after  night,  day  after  day,  to  bring 
my  Jos6  back  to  me.  And  still  you  smile.  You 
do  not  care." 

Wrought  to  a  high  pitch  of  excitement  by  her 
maddening  thoughts,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
advanced  to  the  altar,  a  desperate  look  on  her 
tear-stained  face. 

Halting,  she  bowed  her  head.  "God  forgive 
me,"  she  murmured,  "if  it  is  wrong,  but  I  must — 
I  must — I  must  have  him  back." 

As  she  glanced  up  again  the  peaceful  smile  of 
the  Madonna  maddened  her.  Almost  beside  her 
self  with  mingled  anger  and  religious  emotion,  she 
reached  out,  took  the  waxen  image  of  the  infant 
Jesus  from  the  arms  of  the  statuette,  and  rev 
erently  wrapping  it  in  the  folds  of  a  silken  scarf, 


VANUELA  STRIKES  269 

hurried    to    the    door.     Kneeling    again    at    the 
threshold,  she  whispered  humbly  but  firmly: 

"Holy  Mother,  forgive  me,  but  you  shall  have 
it  again  when  you  bring  him  back  to  me." 

Arillo  had  galloped  back  to  the  camp.  The 
men  were  at  dinner,  grouped  about  the  fires. 
Jose  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 

"Jose,"  responded  Vanuela  coolly,  in  response 
to  the  query  of  the  Don,  "Jose  is  not  here.  He 
has  been  greatly  honored,  Senor  Arillo.  He  is  now 
riding  with  dispatches  for  Don  Jesus  Pico,  by 
order  of  Commandant  Flores." 

Like  a  knife  thrust  he  delivered  the  words,  and 
joyed  to  see  the  sudden  agony  in  the  face  of 
Don  Jos6  Antonio. 

"Jose!"  he  exclaimed.  "That  child  carrying 
dispatches  through  a  dangerous  country?  Sangre 
de  Cristo!  Some  one  shall  surely  answer  to  me 
for  this!  By  the  order  of  Flores,  you  say?" 

Malicious  gladness  manifest  in  his  dark  face, 
Vanuela  gazed  gleefully  after  the  Don  as  he  spurred 
his  horse  madly  toward  the  ranch  house. 

With  face  like  a  thundercloud,  Arillo  burst 
into  the  room  where  Flores  sat,  occupied  with 
the  papers  on  the  table. 

"Sanguis,"  he  panted,  "can  it  be  true  that  you 
have  sent  that  boy,  that  child  Jos6,  to  Obispo 
with  dispatches?  It  seems  incredible!" 

18 


270  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Flores'  gaze,  as  he  met  the  Don's  indignant 
look,  was  steady,  but  his  face  flushed  angrily  at 
Arillo's  words. 

He  himself  would  have  chosen  another  mes 
senger,  but  Vanuela  had  assured  him  the  boy 
was  competent.  The  thing  was  done ;  the  boy  was 
now  far  out  of  reach.  Besides,  he  was  irritated  by 
the  peremptory  tone  of  Arillo.  The  commandant 
was  in  no  mood  to  be  dictated  to  by  any  one. 

"Calm  thyself,  my  dear  Don  Jose  Antonio," 
he  said  reassuringly.  "  It  is  true  the  boy  was  sent 
by  my  command.  He  is  a  soldier  and  an  Arillo, 
and  obeys  orders  without  questioning.  He  is 
mounted  on  one  of  the  blancos  of  Don  Andreas 
Pico,  which,  as  you  doubtless  know,  can  out 
distance  anything  in  California.  There  is  really 
no  need  for  anxiety." 

Don  Jos6  Antonio  bit  his  lip ;  his  face  was  white 
with  indignation.  Regaining  control  of  himself, 
he  said  slowly:  "Don  Jos6  Maria  Flores,  you  are 
our  commandant  and  governor,  and  as  such  I 
salute  you  and  obey  you."  He  bowed  formally, 
a  bow  which  Flores,  rising  to  his  feet,  as  gravely 
returned.  "But  if  that  boy  comes  to  any  harm, 
by  all  the  saints  and  angels,  when  the  war  is  over, 
California — nay,  the  whole  earth — will  be  much 
too  small  to  hold  us  both.  One  of  us  shall  die." 

The  commandant  was  not  lacking  in  cool 
courage. 


VANUELA  STRIKES  271 

"I  accept,  Don  Jose"  Antonio.  If — as  I  believe 
is  very  unlikely — the  boy  prove  unfortunate, 
then  I  will  meet  you  at  your  pleasure." 

"There  is  much  else  at  the  bottom  of  all  this, 
Don  Jose  Antonio,"  said  Alvaro,  when  Arillo 
had  told  him  his  story. 

The  two  men  were  seated  on  their  horses, 
facing  one  another. 

' '  I  cannot  believe  it  is  the  doing  of  Commandant 
Flores,  he  is — " 

He  stopped  short,  his  eyes  fixed  in  wonder — 
wonder  in  which  there  was  sudden,  startled 
recognition. 

A  man  had  ridden  up  quietly  behind  Arillo.  It 
was  MacNamara,  a  black,  wide-brimmed  Ameri 
can  hat  well  down  on  his  head,  a  big  bandana  hand 
kerchief  drawn  over  his  mouth  as  a  protection 
against  the  flying  dust  of  the  road.  As  he  walked 
his  horse  past  the  two,  he  jerked  the  handkerchief 
down  from  his  face  and  bared  his  head  in  courteous 
salute. 

Don  Augustin  sat  rigid  as  a  statue.  Arillo, 
his  back  to  the  newcomer,  stared  at  his  friend 
uncomprehendingly.  Suddenly  Don  Augustin 
stepped  his  horse  forward  and  whispered  in 
Arillo's  ear,  "Quick,  quick!  Ride  with  me!" 

Alvaro  was  whirling  down  the  trail,  slashing  his 
horse  with  his  quirt.  Don  Jose  Antonio,  reading 
in  the  agitated  face  of  his  companion  something 


272  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

momentous,  wheeled  about  and  galloped  with 
him,  till  the  camp  was  out  of  sight. 

For  once  the  cool  imperturbability  of  Don 
Augustin  had  deserted  him. 

"Name  of  God,  Don  Jose1  Antonio,  but  we  have 
been  fools!"  he  panted.  "I  know  him  now. 
He  is  none  other  than  MacNamara — Padre 
MacNamara,  to  whom  Pico  gave  the  lands.  By 
the  God  above,  I  swear  it !  I  recognized  him  when 
he  rode  up,  his  head  bared,  his  beard  covered — 
those  big  eyes — that  broad  brow.  Madre  de 
Dios,  it  is  surely,  surely  he!" 

Arillo  sat  still,  attentive,  wordless.  "Yes, 
yes,"  he  finally  admitted,  "I  believe  thee.  It  is 
none  other.  Always  have  I  known  that  I  had 
seen  him  somewhere  before." 

Alvaro's  words  needed  no  other  confirmation 
than  the  insistent,  intangible,  haunting  memories 
that  had  come  to  the  Don  at  every  sight  of 
Almagro's  large,  dark  face  and  at  the  tones  of 
his  deep  voice. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  as  the  two  men,  bend 
ing  over  their  saddles,  galloped  toward  the  city. 
The  minds  of  both  were  busy  with  the  same 
thought.  The  supposed  Spaniard  had  been  with 
them  ever  since  the  first  attack  on  Gillie.  They 
recalled  a  hundred  corroborative  incidents, — his 
participation  in  the  attempt  to  murder  the 
American  prisoners;  his  attempt  later  to  have 


VANUELA  STRIKES  273 

them  sent  to  Mexico,  an  attempt  that  was  frus 
trated  only  by  the  firm  opposition  of  the  two  men 
now  galloping  toward  the  pueblo;  his  continual 
sounding  in  the  ears  of  the  Californians  the  tale 
of  the  greatness  and  glory  of  the  British  Empire. 
English  sovereigns  and  guineas  had  been  for 
many  months  circulating  freely  in  the  pueblo. 
MacNamara  had  ever  been  in  close  touch  with 
Flores:  he  had  had  time  to  do  much.  What  had 
he  accomplished  ?  Could  it  be  that  he  and  Flores 
were  in  a  conspiracy  to  deliver  California  to 
England?  Why  otherwise  had  the  British  fleet 
lingered  through  the  autumn  months  at  Monterey 
and  later  at  Santa  Barbara? 

Arriving  at  the  house  of  Arillo,  the  two  men  at 
once  sent  couriers  galloping  with  secret  messages 
to  every  officer  upon  whom  they  could  depend, 
warning  them  to  slip  away  from  the  camp  during 
the  early  hours  of  the  night.  But  it  was  near 
midnight  before  they  gathered,  an  anxious, 
excited  group  in  the  big  room  of  the  Arillo  home. 

In  awestruck  silence  they  listened  while  Don 
Augustin  told  his  tale.  Not  one  man  doubted 
its  truth,  not  one  could  be  found  who  knew  aught 
of  Don  Pablo  de  Almagro  before  his  sudden 
appearance  in  the  pueblo  during  the  days  of 
Gillie's  rule.  Every  action  of  his  since  they  had 
known  him  confirmed  Alvaro's  theory. 

All  eyes  were  turned  on  Don  Andreas  Pico, 


274  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

upon  whose  presence  Alvaro  had  insisted.  What 
would  his  attitude  be  ?  For  once  in  his  fun-loving 
life  there  was  no  merriment  in  Pico's  face.  Rising 
to  his  feet,  he  said  slowly: 

"For  some  time  have  I  suspected  the  man. 
Always  has  he  boasted  to  me  of  the  might  and 
justice  of  England.  But  yesterday  he  vowed 
that  if  it  was  the  English  we  were  facing  instead 
of  the  Americans,  he  would  not  fight.  He  was 
speaking  of  the  English  ships  at  Santa  Barbara 
when  we  were  interrupted.  Whatever  his  aims, 
I  do  not  believe  there  is  any  plot  to  which  Flores 
is  a  party.  Nor  am  I.  I  am  not  for  England, 
though  Pio  was.  I  am  for  a  free  California. 
Now  let  us  make  sure  before  we  accuse  Flores. 
Let  us  ride  at  once  to  the  powder  house  at  San 
Gabriel,  capture  the  man,  and  force  from  him 
the  truth." 

Without  a  dissenting  voice,  this  plan  was 
adopted,  and  Arillo,  Alvaro,  Pico,  and  a  dozen 
others,  angry  and  determined,  were  soon  galloping 
through  the  night  toward  San  Gabriel. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
"THE  END  is  NOW  IN  SIGHT" 

TTUGO  VANUELA  bent  the  lithe  sword  blade 
•*•  •••  almost  double,  and  smiled  as  the  shiny  strip 
of  steel  flashed  back  into  place.  His  heavy 
mouth  was  grim,  but  it  was  plain  that  his  thoughts 
were  not  unpleasant. 

"Let  us  begin,  Pedro,"  he  suggested.  "It  is 
now  some  weeks  since  we  have  had  a  bout." 

The  middle-aged  man  seated  on  the  bench  by 
the  door  of  the  adobe,  mending  the  cord  on  the 
handle  of  a  rapier,  glanced  up  at  Hugo  curiously. 

"Jesus  Maria,  Hugo,  my  son,  but  thou  art 
ever  anxious  for  sword  play.  Well  art  thou  aware 
that  I  have  taught  thee  all  I  know.  Even  now 
thou  art  almost  a  match  for  me.  Truly  do  I 
believe  that  with  the  rapier  thou  art  the  equal 
of  any  man  in  California." 

Vanuela's  eyes  brightened  with  gratified  pride. 

"It  is  kind  thou  art  to  say  so,  my  Pedro,  yet 
it  is  but  thy  years  that  tell  against  thee.  Easily 
and  often  canst  thou  touch  me  yet." 

Pedro  was  still  strong  and  erect,  but  his  grizzled 
hair  and  wrinkled  brow  told  of  advancing  years. 
At  Hugo's  words  he  ceased  his  work  to  gaze 
moodily  at  the  bell  tower  of  San  Gabriel  Mission 
Church,  a  few  yards  away.  His  thoughts  were 

275 


276  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

of  the  far-off  days  when  his  had  been  the  best 
blade  in  all  the  army  of  the  king  of  Spain. 

"Ay  de  mi,"  he  sighed.  "Yes,  it  is  true;  I 
grow  old.  For  Dios,  so  must  it  come  to  all  of 
us,  but,"  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  "I  have  had 
my  life, —  battle  and  march,  women  and  love 
and  wine,  rest  and  food.  One  must  be  content." 

The  two  rolled  up  the  sleeves  of  their  sword 
arms  and  saluted.  As  if  anxious  to  wipe  from  his 
memory  Vanuela's  words  of  a  few  moments  before, 
Pedro  took  the  offensive  from  the  first.  The 
years  seemed  to  fall  from  him,  and  as  he  wheeled 
about  his  antagonist  his  agile  movements  had 
all  the  supple  grace  of  a  dancer. 

Vanuela,  purely  on  the  defensive,  the  set, 
grim  smile  still  on  his  face,  hardly  moved,  meeting 
every  pass  and  lunge  with  alert  readiness.  Pedro 
redoubled  the  fury  of  his  attack,  only  to  meet 
with  the  same  impassable  defense.  As  the  fury 
of  the  veteran's  sword  play  moderated,  Vanuela, 
with  a  sudden  movement  of  his  wrist,  sent  the 
old  man's  sword  whirling  to  the  grass. 

Pedro  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  his  shoulders 
drooping  pathetically.  Then  he  walked  back  to 
the  bench  and  resumed  his  seat. 

"Senor  Hugo  Vanuela,"  he  said  impressively, 
"old  as  I  am,  thou  art  the  only  man  in  California 
can  disarm  me.  I  will  fence  no  more  with  thee; 
thou  art  my  master." 


"THE  END  IS  NOW  IN  SIGHT"     277 

Vanuela  stood  silently  cutting  hissing  circles  in 
the  air  with  the  shimmering  streak  of  steel. 
There  was  a  look  of  deep  meditation  on  his  face. 
Pedro  stared  at  him  wonderingly. 

"Why  dost  thou  love  it  so,  Don  Hugo?  For 
full  seven  years  hast  thou  come  to  me,  ever  since 
thou  wast  a  boy,  and  paid  me  for  my  teaching 
many  a  round  piece  of  American  gold.  Why  is  it 
so  ?  There  is  but  little  use  for  the  sword  in  these 
days,  even  though  there  be  war  in  the  land.  The 
bullet  is  everything;  the  good  steel  nothing — not 
as  in  the  old  days,"  he  sighed.  "Why  dost  thou 
love  so  the  clatter  of  the  rapiers,  may  I  be  per 
mitted  to  ask?  It  is  in  truth  the  music  of  the 
past." 

Vanuela's  blue  eyes  contracted  to  mere  slits. 
His  brow  clouded,  and  in  the  waning  light  his 
dark  face  looked  almost  diabolic. 

"There  is  a  man,"  he  said  slowly,  "an  enemy, 
that  I  would  kill  by  the  sword." 

"Jesus,  Jesus,  that  is  it."  The  old  man  shud 
dered  a  little.  "The  good  God  pity  him,  whoever 
he  be.  If  ever  he  meets  thee  with  steel — as  I 
live,  the  prayers  of  his  patron  saint  will  avail 
him  nothing.  And  that  fine  sword  of  thine — 
there  is  none  like  it  outside  of  old  Spain." 

"It  was  my  father's  sword,"  said  Hugo  gravely, 
as  he  buckled  it  on. 

Bidding    Pedro    farewell,    he    vaulted    to    his 


278  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

horse's  back  and  with  head  bont  in  thought  walked 
his  steed  past  the  slowly  crumbling  arches  of  the 
mission  courtyard. 

Truly,  in  the  present  condition  of  affairs, 
there  was  but  little  comfort  for  Hugo  Vanuela. 
Never  at  any  time  had  the  outlook  for  the  final 
success  of  the  Californians  been  so  promising, 
Neither  the  spectacular  defeat  of  the  Americans 
at  Dominguez  field,  nor  the  fact  that  many  of 
the  Californian  officers,  among  them  Arillo  and 
Alvaro,  were  now  openly  in  favor  of  beginning 
peace  negotiations  with  the  Americans,  had 
caused  him  much  anxiety.  But  since  the  tri 
umphant  return  of  Don  Andreas  Pico,  victorious 
from  the  field  of  San  Pascual  with  the  captured 
cannon,  and  the  astounding  news  that  the  Cali 
fornian  lances  had  met  the  dreaded  American 
soldiers  from  the  mysterious  east  and  defeated 
them,  confidence  reigned  supreme  among  the 
insurgents.  It  was  a  confidence  so  enthusiastic 
and  universal  that  even  the  cold  temperament  of 
Vanuela  was  impressed. 

From  the  south  came  no  news.  Stockton 
was  still  at  San  Diego,  afraid,  Flores  claimed,  to 
face  the  long  lances  of  the  caballeros.  Though 
Fremont  was  marching  south,  only  half  of  his  men 
were  said  to  be  mounted,  and  his  progress,  owing 
to  the  inclement  weather,  was  painfully  slow. 
Rumors,  too,  were  flying  thick  and  fast  that  the 


"THE  END  IS  NOW  IN  SIGHT"     279 

war  with  the  United  States  was  ended,  and  that 
California  was  to  remain  a  part  of  Mexico. 

But  the  most  portentous  news  of  the  last  few 
days — news  that  had  thrilled  every  Calif ornian 
heart  with  joy  and  brought  but  troubled  frowns 
to  the  face  of  Vanuela — was  that  the  powder- 
making  experiments  at  San  Gabriel  under  the 
direction  of  MacNamara  had  proved  a  complete 
success.  Altogether,  the  chances  of  the  Americans 
returning  victorious  to  the  pueblo  were  becoming 
more  and  more  remote. 

Turning  his  horse  at  the  mission  church,  Hugo 
trotted  up  the  silent,  dusty  street  to  the  powder 
house.  The  sentry  at  the  door  barred  the  way, 
but  MacNamara,  his  face  blackened  and  his 
hands  sooty,  came  to  the  door  and  greeted  him 
cheerily. 

During  the  last  few  months  the  secret  agent  had 
been  far  from  idle.  In  the  pueblo  he  stood  high. 
His  commanding  yet  prepossessing  personality, 
his  little  touch  of  the  old-land  accent,  his  knowl 
edge  of  the  great  world  beyond  the  seas,  his 
never-failing  courtesy,  had  proved  a  passport  to 
the  hearts  and  the  homes  of  the  people.  In  public 
gatherings  his  views  were  listened  to  with  respect 
and  attention. 

All  this  was  but  part  of  the  waiting  game  he 
was  now  playing.  Already  a  trustworthy  handful, 
who  suspected  if  they  did  not  know  of  his  real 


mission,  had  given  him  their  promise  of  support 
when  the  time  should  come.  And  that  that 
time  would  come — when  the  northward  advance 
of  Stockton  would  remind  the  Californian  leaders 
that  their  lives  would  be  forfeit,  and  when  the 
American  commander,  whom  MacNamara  believed 
to  be  arrogant  and  relentless,  would  refuse  to 
grant  amnesty  to  the  men  of  the  broken  paroles — 
he  was  absolutely  certain.  Face  to  face  with  the 
crowning  indignity  of  a  death  on  the  scaffold, 
the  leaders  of  the  Californians  would  have  no 
choice  but  an  appeal  to  the  British  commodore. 

Within  the  low,  heavy-beamed  room,  a  dozen 
Indian  boys  were  engaged  in  grinding  material 
in  mortars.  In  the  far  corner  Father  Sanchez  of 
the  mission  church  was  absorbed  in  the  manipula 
tion  of  a  pair  of  scales.  Bags  of  crude  saltpeter 
and  barrels  of  sulphur  stood  in  the  corners,  while 
a  long  table  was  piled  high  with  the  burnt  and 
blackened  twigs  of  the  willow. 

"Is  everything  going  well?"  inquired  Hugo. 

"Most  excellently,  my  worthy  friend.  Look 
at  this."  MacNamara  reached  into  a  covered 
box  and  fished  out  a  handful  of  shining  black 
grains. 

It  was  with  secret  reluctance  that  the  English 
man  had  taken  charge  of  the  powder-making 
experiments.  He  had  no  particular  desire  to  see 
the  Californians  well  equipped  with  a  supply  of 


"THE  END  IS  NOW  IN  SIGHT"      281 

good  powder.  But  the  command  of  Flores  had 
been  peremptory.  The  manufacture  of  powder 
was,  at  that  period,  part  of  the  training  of  every 
military  officer,  and  of  that  fact  Flores  was  well 
aware.  The  secret  agent  could  find  no  good 
reason  for  refusal.  He  consoled  himself,  however, 
with  the  reflection  that  if  the  course  of  events 
demanded  it  he  could  easily  adulterate  the 
mixture  at  the  last  moment.  Even  that  might  not 
be  necessary.  He  was  almost  ready  now  to 
communicate  with  the  commodore  at  Santa 
Barbara,  and  the  moment  the  British  marines 
arrived  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  pueblo  he 
would  see  to  it  that  the  powder  house  and  all 
that  it  contained  were  placed  in  their  possession, 
to  be  used,  if  necessary,  against  the  Californians 
themselves.  This  settled,  his  energetic  nature 
soon  lost  itself  in  the  joy  of  accomplishment. 

"Friend  Hugo,"  he  said  triumphantly,  "not 
even  in  the  armories  of  the  king  of  Spain  is  better 
powder  being  made.  Give  my  thy  pistol,  and 
come  without." 

He  loaded,  and  fired  at  a  tree  a  few  yards  away. 
A  sharp,  clean  report,  and  the  bark  flew  from  the 
trunk  in  glistening  white  chips. 

"So-o-o,"  remarked  Vanuela.  His  eyes  were 
half  closed,  but  he  was  all  attention.  Behind 
his  dark  brow  his  brain  was  busy.  He  was  face 
to  face  with  a  damning  crisis  in  his  plans. 


282  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"The  trouble  was,"  went  on  MacNamara,  still 
full  of  his  achievement,  "that  in  the  powder  you 
used  for  the  first  shots  at  Dominguez  there  was  too 
much  sulphur  and  charcoal."  He  waved  his  hand 
toward  the  heap  of  blackened  twigs  on  the  table. 

Vanuela  stood  drinking  in  every  word,  his  eyes 
still  half  closed. 

"Too  much  sulphur — too  much  charcoal. 
What  effect  has  that  on  the  powder?"  he  queried 
carelessly. 

"It  makes  it  slow  to  go  off — much  smoke 
and  little  force.  They  tell  me  the  cannon  balls 
simply  rolled  along  the  ground  at  Dominguez 
until  the  last  shots,  when  they  used  the  old 
powder." 

Vanuela  nodded  confirmation. 

"Then,  too,"  continued  the  Englishman,  "it 
is  largely  a  matter  of  the  right  proportions." 
He  reached  down  into  a  cask  and  drew  out  a 
handful  of  grayish  dust.  "Seventy -five  parts  of 
saltpeter,  thirteen  of  charcoal,  and  twelve  of 
sulphur.  This  mixture  we  dampen  till  somewhat 
moist.  Then  it  is  thoroughly  kneaded.  We  then 
press  it  between  these  heavy  weights,  using  this 
lever,"  he  pointed  to  a  huge  beam  weighted  with 
rocks  which  ran  the  length  of  the  room,  "until 
the  moisture  is  squeezed  out.  Then  the  hard 
material  produced  is  again  pulverized,  and  behold, 
we  have  powder,  and  good  powder." 


"THE  END  IS  NOW  IN  SIGHT"     283 

Vanuela's  sleepy  eyes  were  searching  the  room, 
and  he  whistled  a  few  notes  of  a  bugle  call. 

"This  is  sulphur,"  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  big 
box  near  him;  "and  this  is  powdered  charcoal; 
and  this  is  the  correct  mixture,  ready  to  be  wet." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  each  as  he  spoke. 

"So-o-o,"  he  continued,  "it  seems  simple,  after 
all.  Ah,  my  dear  Almagro,  we  are  indeed  for 
tunate  to  have  found  you." 

He  looked  amazed  admiration  into  the  other's 
face.  MacNamara's  eyes  laughed  back. 

"How  goes   it   in   the   pueblo?" 

The  words  themselves  were  of  no  import,  but 
the  secret  agent's  sharp  glance  was  full  of 
meaning 

"I  have  news."  Vanuela's  voice  sank  to  a 
whisper.  "Meet  me — can  you  meet  me  here, 
say,  at  midnight?" 

MacNamara  frowned  for  a  moment,  and  looked 
at  Hugo  questioningly. 

"Why  here?"  he  demanded.  "Oh,  well,"  he 
resumed  quickly,  "it  is  a  quiet  spot.  I  have 
access  here  at  all  times,  and  there  is  no  chance  of 
eavesdropping  or  interruption.  There  is  always 
a  guard  at  the  door.  I  will  dismiss  him,  and 
wait  for  you.  Good,  then  I  shall  expect  you — 
at  midnight." 

Vanuela  rode  away.  On  his  sinister  counte 
nance  was  a  look  of  vicious  determination. 


284  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Through  his  mind  ran  the  words  of  the  Englishman 
the  day  he  had  revealed  his  plans  and  identity: 
"I  would  have  killed  you,  my  friend."  Hugo 
chuckled  audibly.  "Those  were  thy  words  to 
me,  Almagro." 

It  was  nearing  midnight  when  MacNamara, 
swathed  in  a  heavy  scrape,  for  the  December 
night  was  chill,  stepped  up  to  the  sentry  at 
the  door  of  the  powder  house  and  remarked 
graciously: 

"Pablo,  my  boy,  you  may  if  you  wish  go  and 
sing  a  verse  or  two  to  your  lady  love.  I  will  take 
your  place  till  sunrise." 

Directly  Vanuela,  who  had  been  lurking  behind 
the  choir  steps  of  the  mission  church,  watching 
for  MacNamara's  arrival,  sauntered  in. 

For  the  last  three  weeks  the  Englishman  had 
been  urging  on  him  the  supreme  importance  of 
haste  in  the  matter  of  signatures  to  the  petition 
addressed  to  the  British  commodore  at  Santa 
Barbara,  asking  him  in  no  equivocal  terms  to 
declare  a  protectorate  over  California.  Mac 
Namara,  after  having  been  sharply  reprimanded 
by  Flores  for  his  many  absences  from  the  powder 
house,  had  left  the  matter  to  Vanuela,  who  had 
been  for  days  buoying  him  up  with  encouraging 
but  false  reports  of  the  progress  he  was  making. 

"Have  you  the  list,  Hugo?"  he  questioned 
impatiently. 


"THE  END  IS  NOW  IN  SIGHT"     285 

"I  have."  Vanuela  fumbled  in  his  clothing 
with  his  left  hand.  His  right  was  hidden  behind 
his  back. 

"Had  you  not  better  strike  a  light,  that  you 
may  read  the  signatures?"  Hugo  suggested. 

"A  light  in  here?"  snapped  MacNamara. 
"Man,  are  you  mad?  Do  you  wish  to  be  blown 
to  the  angels?  You  can  tell  me  the  names  you 
have." 

"I  cannot  remember  them  all,"  Hugo  said 
hesitatingly.  ' '  Pico,  Aguilar,  Del  Valle,  Alvaro — ' ' 

"Alvaro!"  There  was  startled  incredulity  in 
MacNamara's  voice  as  he  peered  sharply  at 
Vanuela.  Alvaro  he  knew  as  the  bosom  friend 
of  Arillo. 

"Good,"  he  remarked  after  a  moment's  pause. 
"Listen,  friend  Hugo;  the  time  has  come  for 
action — for  me  to  ride  to  Santa  Barbara.  I  will 
show  this  paper  to  the  commodore,  but  only  to 
warn  him  that  there  is  a  movement  among  the 
Californians  in  favor  of  England,  and  show  him 
my  credentials.  Later,  when  Stockton  starts  on 
his  march  north  and  when  Flores  begins  to  realize 
the  uselessness  of  further  resistance,  I  will  point 
out  to  them  their  possible  fate  if  Stockton  insists 
on  the  application  of  the  full  penalty  of  military 
law  in  the  matter  of  the  paroles.  Then  we  can 
double  the  number  of  the  signatures.  It  will 
surely  be  unanimous.  When  that  time  comes,  as 

19 


286  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

it  surely  will,  I  shall  go  again  to  Santa  Barbara 
with  the  complete  list  and  urge  the  commodore  to 
hoist  the  British  flag.  This,"  tapping  the  papers 
in  his  hand,  "will  show  the  world  that  we  have 
the  consent  of  the  Calif ornians — that  we  are  not, 
like  the  Americans,  unwelcome  conquerors.  When 
I  return  the  second  time  it  will  be  as  Captain 
Eugene  MacNamara  of  her  Majesty's  Royal 
Marines. 

"The  main  part  of  this  work,  the  mixing  of  the 
ingredients,  is  now  complete,"  he  declared,  as 
he  laid  his  hand  on  the  edge  of  the  barrel  by  his 
side.  "Father  Sanchez  and  the  boys  can  do  the 
wetting  and  pressing  as  well  as  I.  To-morrow  at 
midnight  I  will  start.  Do  thou  tell  them  I  have 
gone  to  San  Pedro  in  search  of  more  saltpeter. 
Ah,  Hugo,"  he  added  triumphantly,  "thou  hast 
been  a  friend  indeed.  There  will  be  place,  power, 
and  gold  for  thee  under  the  new  regime.  It  has 
been  a  long  and  hard  road,  but  the  end  is  now  in 
sight." 

"Yes,"  assented  Vanuela  slowly,  "the  end  is 
now  in  sight." 

For  a  moment  he  seemed  pondering  some 
problem. 

"There  is,"  he  suggested  "almost  light  enough 
at  the  window — the  moonlight  is  very  bright — to 
read  the  names  or  at  least  to  note  how  many  there 
are."  Vanuela's  tongue  was  moistening  his  dry 


"THE  END  IS  NOW  IN  SIGHT"     287 

lips.  In  the  hand  held  behind  his  back  was  a 
bright,  metallic  gleam. 

The  Englishman  leaned  toward  the  window,  his 
head  bent  to  one  side,  the  paper  held  close  to  his 
face.  His  shoulder  was  turned  toward  Vanuela. 

Slowly,  deliberately,  as  if  to  make  the  surety  of 
the  thrust  absolute,  Vanuela  raised  his  arm  high 
above  his  head.  For  an  instant,  while  the  moon 
light  glittered  on  the  broad  blade,  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  swelling  cords  of  the  other's  throat. 
Then  with  a  merciless  downward  sweep  he  drove 
the  knife  to  the  haft  in  MacNamara's  neck. 

The  stricken  man  dropped  the  paper,  his  knees 
bent,  and  his  mouth  opened  in  a  gasp.  With  a 
quick,  certain  movement  Vanuela  snatched  the 
serape  from  the  table  and  wound  it  around  his 
head  and  mouth.  The  Englishman  tottered 
backward,  gurgling  miserably  and  clutching  at 
its  smothering  folds,  while  Vanuela  bent  over 
him,  driving  the  blade  again  and  again  into  his 
victim's  neck  and  breast.  Then  his  strong  brown 
hands  grasped  and  held  the  cloth-enwrapped  head 
and  writhing  body  until  it  sank  still  and  silent  to 
the  floor. 

Without  unwinding  the  cloak,  Vanuela's  long 
ringers  found  the  documents.  As  he  wiped  the 
bloodstained  papers  on  MacNamara's  garments, 
he  murmured  vengefully,  "'I  would  have  killed 
you,  my  friend.'  Killed  me,  eh?  So-o-o." 


288  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

The  man  on  the  floor  opened  his  eyes.  The 
cloth  had  fallen  from  his  blood-smeared  face. 
He  raised  himself  slightly  on  one  arm.  For  an 
instant  the  moonlight  glistened  on  his  glassy, 
upturned  eyeballs,  and  from  his  clotted  beard 
came  the  words,  "God — God — save  England. 
God  save— the— " 

Like  a  tiger  Vanuela  was  upon  him.  Again 
and  again  the  knife  found  his  throat,  and  the 
body  fell  back  limp  and  breathless  to  the  floor. 

In  an  instant  Vanuela  was  on  his  feet.  He 
rushed  to  the  boxes  containing  the  sulphur  and 
the  charcoal  and,  grasping  an  earthenware  vessel, 
dumped  measure  after  measure  of  each  into 
the  cask  containing  the  correctly  proportioned 
mixture. 

"Much  smoke  and  little  force,"  he  muttered 
gleefully,  as,  reaching  both  arms  deep  into  the 
cask,  he  stirred  the  contents  to  a  semblance  of 
consistency. 

He  led  his  horse  silently  away  in  the  moonlight, 
and  mounted  behind  a  clump  of  sycamores. 

"A  fine  man,  truly,  but  I  could  use  him  no 
further.  He  had  become  troublesome.  'I  would 
have  killed  you,  my  friend,' "  he  chuckled  as  he 
disappeared  in  the  night. 

A  thundering  clatter  of  hoofs  by  the  mission 
church,  and  Arillo,  Alvaro,  Pico,  and  a  dozen 


"THE  END  IS  NOW  IN  SIGHT"     289 

others  who  had  attended  the  secret  meeting  dashed 
up  to  the  door  of  the  powder  house. 

They  found  within,  hacked  to  death  by  a 
hundred  knife  cuts  and  weltering  in  a  pool  of  his 
own  blood,  the  man  whom  they  now  knew  to  be 
Padre  Eugene  MacNamara. 

Wonderingly,  they  bore  him  into  the  moonlight 
and  laid  his  mangled  form  on  the  ground.  Don 
Augustin  alone  seemed  unmoved.  He  had  never 
forgiven  MacNamara  for  his  attempt  on  the 
lives  of  Willard  and  his  men.  The  silence  was 
broken  by  the  click  of  his  snuffbox  cover  and  his 
muttered  comment:  "The  devil  has  claimed 
his  own." 

But  the  others  crossed  themselves,  and  shud 
dered. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   TERROR   OF   THE   SCAFFOLD 

"OTOCKTON  has  rejected  your  offer  of  peace, 

^  caballeros;  he  is  determined  to  retake  the 
pueblo." 

The  dusty,  travel-stained  courier  was  addressing 
the  officers  of  the  Californian  army,  assembled  in 
a  room  of  the  Verdugo  ranch  house.  He  had  just 
returned  from  an  interview  with  the  American 
commander,  who,  with  his  entire  force,  except  a 
hundred  men  left  as  a  garrison  at  San  Diego,  was 
now  halfway  between  San  Diego  and  Los  Angeles. 

Arillo,  Alvaro,  and  Cota  had  at  last  succeeded 
in  inducing  their  compatriots  to  make  a  tentative 
offer  of  peace.  At  the  council  of  war  held  a  week 
ago — a  council  that  had  lasted  through  twenty- 
four  hours  of  wrangling — the  majority  had 
finally  voted  in  favor  of  extending  the  olive 
branch  to  the  advancing  Americans.  The  courier 
had  galloped  south  with  a  written  communication 
from  Flores  to  Stockton,  a  communication  which 
suggested  a  complete  suspension  of  hostilities, 
leaving  the  fate  of  California  to  be  determined  by 
the  result  of  the  war  in  Mexico.  He  was  now 
presenting  a  report  of  his  mission. 

"Not  for  a  moment  would  the  American  hearken 
to  your  suggestion,  senores,"  went  on  the  courier 

290 


THE  TERROR  OF  THE  SCAFFOLD  291 

in  a  troubled  voice.  "For  Dios,  hardly  was  I 
treated  with  common  courtesy." 

In  detail  he  related  the  incidents  of  the  in 
terview.  Commodore  Stockton  had  glanced 
hurriedly  over  the  document,  and  then  remarked 
contemptuously : 

"Humph — signed  by  Flores — calls  himself 
governor  and  military  commandant  of  California. 
There  is  but  one  governor  of  California,  and  his 
name  is  not  Flores.  There  is,  however,  a  man  of 
that  name,  a  disgraced  and  dishonored  rebel  who 
has  broken  his  parole.  I  will  have  him  hanged 
when  he  falls  into  my  hands.  I  suppose  that  is 
the  fellow  whose  name  is  at  the  end  of  this  scrawl." 

As  the  courier  concluded,  there  was  silence  in 
the  little  room.  Every  eye  was  turned  on  Flores, 
whose  face  blanched  a  little  as  he  tugged  at  his 
mustache.  But  his  voice  was  calm  enough  as  he 
queried : 

"Did  he  make  any  counter  proposition,  Don 
Domingo?" 

"He  did,  sefior.  He  stated  that  he  would 
accept  a  surrender  of  our  forces  provided  that 
we  surrender  to  him,  unconditionally,  the  person 
of  our  commandant  and  governor,  Don  Jose 
Maria  Flores,  to  be  tried  for  his  life.  Otherwise 
he  will  court-martial  and  hang  all  the  caballeros 
who  have  broken  their  paroles,  when  he  captures 
them." 


292  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Shocked  and  stunned  by  this  revelation  of  the 
relentlessness  of  the  American  commander,  the 
Dons  sat  for  a  moment  in  wordless  silence.  That 
any  officer  calling  himself  a  gentleman  and  a 
Christian  should  manifest  such  a  cold-blooded 
desire  for  vengeance  was  almost  past  belief. 

Like  a  flash,  anxiety  and  apprehension  gave 
way  to  rage  and  indignation.  The  room  burst 
into  a  babble  of  bitter  ejaculations.  Though  the 
Californians  had  yielded  to  the  arguments  of 
Arillo  and  Cota,  many  of  them  were  far  from 
convinced  of  the  hopelessness  of  their  cause,  but 
they  had  been  sincere  in  their  desire  to  avoid 
further  bloodshed.  The  Americans  had  met  their 
well-meant  suggestion  by  a  proposition  so  utterly 
insulting  to  honorable  men  that  their  blood 
boiled  within  them. 

"God  and  his  angels!"  raged  Cota,  his  fair  face 
flushed  with  passion.  "Does  he  think  we  are 
such  craven  cowards  that  we  would  save  ourselves 
by  consenting  to  the  murder  of  our  general? 
Thy  answer,  Don  Domingo,  thy  answer!"  he 
demanded  vehemently. 

Olivas  had  risen  to  his  feet,  all  the  pride  of  the 
genie  de  razon  manifest  in  his  bearing. 

"To  him  I  said  that  sooner  would  we  die  with 
Flores." 

"Good!  Good!"  came  in  a  unanimous  chorus 
Irom  all  parts  of  the  room. 


THE  TERROR  OF  THE  SCAFFOLD  293 

"Jesus  Maria!  They  are  all  alike,  the  Amer 
icans,"  commented  Flores  bitterly.  "Gillie, 
Stockton,  and  Fremont  who  murdered  the 
unarmed  Berryessa  boys — all  of  them.  Strangers 
alike  are  they  to  honor,  mercy,  and  good  faith." 
But  in  his  pale  face  there  was  a  quiet  heroism  as 
he  added,  "Yet  I  place  myself  in  your  hands, 
amigos.  Say  but  the  word,  and  I  will  yield  myself 
to  the  American." 

"You  shall  not." 

The  words  came  like  a  pistol  shot  from  the  lips 
of  Arillo.  Between  himself  and  the  commandant 
there  had  ever  been  but  little  sympathy,  but  by 
none  among  the  Dons  had  Stockton's  offer  been 
held  a  greater  insult  than  by  Don  Jose  Antonio. 

"Por  Dios,  it  is  an  honor  to  be  so  threatened  by 
the  commodore — an  honor  I  had  not  anticipated," 
was  Don  Augustin's  sarcastic  comment,  as  he 
took  a  rather  deliberate  pinch  of  snuff. 

Don  Andreas  Pico  was  giggling.  "Friend 
Manuel,"  he  said,  turning  to  Garfias,  "'tis  said 
thou  art  one  of  the  best  dancers  in  the  pueblo. 
Dost  thou  think  thou  couldst  dance  as  well  as 
usual  on  air?  I  wonder  now,  will  there  be 
music?" 

Hugo  Vanuela,  seated  in  a  corner,  his  chair 
tipped  back,  made  no  comment.  He  had  earnestly 
supported  Arillo  and  Cota  in  regard  to  sending  the 
offer  of  peace  to  Stockton.  He  had  reasons  for 


294  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

knowing  what  the  American's  answer  would  be. 
Though  his  sphinx-like  countenance  hid  his 
emotions,  his  cruel  heart  was  throbbing  triumph 
antly  as,  with  half-closed  eyes,  he  lazily  watched 
the  Dons  struggling  in  the  meshes  of  the  net  his 
wily  brain  had  woven. 

It  was  exactly  the  contingency  long  foreseen  by 
the  shrewd  mind  of  Eugene  MacNamara.  Hugo 
could  not  restrain  a  grin  as  he  thought  of  the 
Englishman  lying  in  his  unmarked  grave  at 
San  Gabriel. 

"For  Dios,  but  he  was  clever,"  he  soliloquized. 

Don  Jos6  Antonio  was  silent.  There  was 
anguish  in  his  face,  but  it  was  not  the  anguish  of 
fear.  Not  of  himself  was  he  thinking,  as  he 
stared  unseeingly  at  the  opposite  wall.  Before 
him  arose,  cruel  in  its  vividness  and  deceptive 
promise,  the  mental  picture  of  the  evening  in  his 
own  home  when  he  had  seen  his  daughter's  eyes 
full  of  joy  and  love  upraised  to  the  flushed, 
happy  face  of  John  Carroll. 

He  was  convinced  of  the  utter  hopelessness  of 
the  Calif ornian  cause;  convinced,  too,  of  the 
relentlessness  of  the  American  commander.  Sud 
denly  he  drew  himself  up  with  a  quick  little  shrug 
of  resolution.  His  calm  words  expressed  the 
unanimous  sentiment  of  the  meeting: 

"We  have  no  choice,  evidently,  but  to  fight — to 
fight  to  the  end." 


THE  TERROR  OF  THE  SCAFFOLD  295 

"What  force  has  the  American,  Sefior  Olivas?" 
inquired  the  commandant. 

"He  has  about  five  hundred  men,  all  on 
foot,  and  armed  with  carbines  and  bayonets," 
responded  the  messenger.  "They  are  marching 
in  a  hollow  square  inclosing  about  a  hundred 
head  of  cattle  and  several  wagons.  The  country 
being  bare  of  herds,  they  slaughter  their  cattle 
for  food  as  they  are  needed.  I  saw  six  cannon; 
there  may  be  more.  They  are  marching  slowly 
on  account  of  the  cattle,  making  about  ten  miles 
a  day." 

"Caballeros,"  said  Flores,  rising  to  his  feet, 
"marshal  your  divisions.  We  march  at  once  to 
take  up  a  position  at  the  Jaboneria  ford  of  the 
San  Gabriel  River.  They  will  attempt  to  cross 
there  to-morrow  or  the  day  after." 

They  lost  no  time.  In  half  an  hour  the  long 
lines  of  cavalry  were  trailing  over  the  level  plain 
toward  the  pueblo. 

Don  Jose  Antonio,  with  Manuel  by  his  side, 
rode  slowly  across  the  plaza  toward  his  own  home. 
Soberly  his  grave  eyes  rested  on  the  figures  of  his 
wife  and  daughter.  They  stood  on  the  veranda, 
waving  their  kerchiefs  in  joyous  recognition,  as 
the  troops  filed  slowly  past.  Servolo  Palera 
slowed  his  horse  for  a  moment,  and  looked  at  the 
girl  long  and  earnestly,  his  soul  in  his  eyes.  But 
she  did  not  see  him;  her  face  was  turned  away, 


296  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

toward  her  father  and  Manuel.  Then  his  chin 
sank  on  his  breast,  and  he  rode  on. 

Seated  within,  Don  Jose"  Antonio  told  them  the 
story — the  sending  of  the  courier  with  the  proffer 
of  peace,  and  the  determination  of  Stockton  to 
take  the  uttermost  vengeance  for  the  broken 
paroles. 

"My  dear  wife,"  he  said,  "I  will  be  frank 
with  thee.  I  fear  we  cannot  defeat  the  Ameri 
cans.  In  that  case,  the  worst  he  threatens  may 
come  to  pass." 

The  senora  sat  dazed,  wordless,  pale  with  horror. 
Manuel,  standing  by  his  father's  chair,  was 
weeping  silently.  Loreto,  her  hands  on  her 
heaving  bosom,  stared  at  Don  Jos6  Antonio, 
incredulous  terror  in  her  eyes.  Then  with  a  low 
moan  she  threw  her  arms  about  him,  and  sobbed. 

"Holy  Mother,  it  cannot  be!  They  would  not 
— they  could  not — be  so  cruel." 

At  last  the  horrible  significance  of  her  husband's 
words  penetrated  the  benumbed  brain  of  Senora 
Arillo.  Two  large  tears  were  slowly  stealing  down 
her  cheeks. 

"The  robbers!  The  bandits!"  she  cried.  "Oh, 
how  happy  we  were  before  they  came — and 
since,  naught  but  tears  and  blood,  grief  and 
sorrow.  And  now  this — this — " 

Words  failed  her.  Broken  at  last  was  the 
proud  spirit  of  Senora  Arillo.  Her  head  sank  on 


THE  TERROR  OF  THE  SCAFFOLD  297 

the  table,  and  her  shoulders  shook  with  heaving 
sobs. 

Don  Jose  Antonio,  his  face  ashen,  his  lips 
trembling,  slowly  released  himself  from  his 
daughter's  clinging  arms  and  rose  to  his  feet. 
Gravely  he  kissed  his  wife  farewell  and,  as  Loreto 
came  again  to  his  arms,  he  whispered  in  her  ear : 

"If  the  worst  happens,  be  kind  to  him — as 
kind  as  you  can.  He  is  not  to  blame.  Even  now 
I  know  his  heart  is  aching  like  ours." 

On  him  the  girl  turned  an  indignant  glance. 

"Never,  never,  father.  If — if  it  comes," — she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  say  the  shameful 
words — "to  the  end  of  my  days  shall  I  loathe  all 
Americans  with  an  undying  hatred." 

Don  Jose  Antonio  seemed  to  be  giving  way 
under  the  ordeal.  Suddenly  his  face  changed. 
It  grew  firm,  almost  cheerful.  To  whom  if  not  to 
him,  the  husband  and  the  father,  could  these  look 
for  comfort  in  this  hour  of  their  tribulation?  .  He 
must  have  courage  for  all. 

"Do  not  grieve  so,"  he  said,  as  he  laid  his  hand 
on  the  head  of  his  weeping  wife.  "It  is  not  yet 
ended.  We  may  win.  Or  Stockton  may  relent, 
or — many  things  may  happen.  Be  hopeful  and 
pray — pray  unceasingly  to  the  Holy  Mother  to 
soften  the  hearts  of  our  enemies,  who  to-morrow 
may  be  our  conquerors." 

A  moment  more  of  tender  farewell,  and  he 


298  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

strode  from  the  room  with  a  firm  step  and  an 
almost  debonair  wave  of  his  sombrero. 

As  Arillo  and  Manuel  cantered  down  the 
street  they  noted  Don  Andreas  Pico  at  the 
stockade  gate,  bidding  farewell  to  Benito  Willard. 
Pico  was  leading  a  beautiful  white  horse,  saddled 
and  bridled. 

"My  dear  friend,  Don  Benito, "  Don  Andreas 
was  saying  as  Don  Jos£  Antonio  and  Manuel,  in 
response  to  his  beckoning  hand,  halted  at  the  gate, 
"you  and  your  men  are  now  free  on  parole.  We 
must  take  away  your  guards.  We  are  going  to 
fight  Stockton,  and  we  need  every  man.  Here  is 
the  best  of  my  blancos.  On  his  back  you  are 
perfectly  safe.  He  can  outdistance  any  horse  in 
California.  If  I  meet  death  in  battle,  do  you 
give  him  to  my  brother  Pio,  who  may  possibly 
return  after  the  war  is  over." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,  Don  Andreas,"  replied 
Willard.  "Now,  my  dear  friend,  do  take  care  of 
yourself.  With  Stockton  are  some  of  Fremont's 
men  of  Gillie's  company.  They  are  dead  shots. 
Don  Andreas,  and  you,  Don  Jos6  Antonio,  I  beg 
of  you,  do  not  expose  yourselves  unnecessarily. 
It  means  certain  death." 

"I  will  remember,  Don  Benito.  Thank  you, 
my  friend,"  replied  Arillo  gravely. 

The  emotional  soul  of  Don  Andreas  was  deeply 
touched  by  the  earnest  solicitude  in  the  American's 


THE  TERROR  OF  THE  SCAFFOLD  299 

voice.  The  teardrops  hung  heavy  on  his  eye 
lashes,  but  the  whimsical  smile  trembled  on  his 
lips  as  he  bantered  back: 

"Bah,  no  Andreas t  y  no  mono."1 

A  horseman  whirled  up  the  street,  and  reined 
his  horse  in  front  of  the  group. 

"The  compliments  of  Commandant  Flores," 
he  said  as  he  saluted.  "The  enemy  have  been 
sighted  by  our  scouts  ten  miles  to  the  east  of  the 
river.  They  have  taken  the  Los  Coyotes  road  to 
the  north,  and  the  commandant  thinks  they  will 
attempt  to  cross  the  river  at  the  Paso  de  Bartolo 
instead  of  the  Jaboneria  ford.  We  are  to  meet 
them  there  to-morrow.  He  urges  that  you  rejoin 
the  column  at  once." 

Benito  Willard,  leaning  on  the  silver-chased 
saddle  of  the  bianco,  gazed  sadly  after  the  dis 
appearing  horsemen. 

"Damn  war,  anyway,"  he  sighed  wearily. 
"It  sure  is  brutal  business." 

'Xo  Andreas,  and  no  monkey. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  DREAM  OF  JOSE  EL  RUFO 

JOSE  awoke  with  a  start.  He  was  lying  on  a 
pallet  of  straw,  staring  at  the  small  square 
of  a  barred  window.  He  remembered  now  his 
midnight  conference  with  Don  Jesus  Pico,  the 
alarm  at  the  door,  the  crash  of  splintering  wood 
as  it  gave  way  before  the  musket  butts  of  the 
Americans,  the  arrest  of  Pico  and  himself,  and 
the  march  through  the  darkness  to  San  Luis 
Obispo. 

The  boy  drew  his  hand  across  his  brow,  tossing 
back  the  drooping  lock  of  red,  and  the  brooding 
melancholy  deepened  on  his  face.  Forgotten  was 
the  calamitous  end  of  his  perilous  ride,  for  with 
ever-increasing  clearness  the  strange  vision  of  his 
father  had  again  come  to  him  in  the  night.  But 
this  time,  as  had  never  happened  before,  the 
man  had  risen  from  the  chair,  and  his  lips  had 
moved  in  speech. 

The  tramp  of  marching  feet  without,  the  thud 
of  muskets  on  the  soft  sod,  sharp  military  com 
mands,  and  the  boy,  his  dream  forgotten,  rushed 
to  the  window. 

A  few  yards  from  the  old  mission  of  San  Luis 
Obispo,  Fremont's  four  hundred  men  were  drawn 
up  in  three  sides  of  a  hollow  square.  At  the 

300 


THE  DREAM  OF  JOSE  EL  RUFO    301 

open  end  stood  Angelo,  Don  Jesus  Pico's  Indian 
servant,  his  back  against  a  low  hill,  his  hands  tied, 
and  a  serious,  surprised  expression  on  his  stolid 
face. 

Ten  frontiersmen,  rifles  in  hand,  stepped  out  of 
the  ranks  and  ranged  themselves  in  line  in  front 
of  the  Indian.  Their  rifles  leveled,  and  as  the 
officer  raised  his  sword  and  uttered  a  quick  com 
mand,  a  simultaneous  report  rang  out. 

Angelo  stiffened,  whirled  about,  and  fell  forward 
on  his  face. 

Jose,  sick  at  heart,  turned  away  from  the 
window,  and,  sobbing  bitterly,  threw  himself  on 
his  face  on  the  cot.  In  the  execution  of  Angelo 
he  had  seen  his  own  approaching  fate. 

"Come,  lad,"  said  a  rough  but  not  unkindly 
voice  at  the  door,  "you  are  wanted  now.  The 
court-martial  is  about  to  begin.  Keep  a  stiff 
upper  lip.  Mebbe  it  will  come  out  all  right." 

Accompanied  by  the  guard,  Jose  passed  along 
the  ruined  portico  of  the  mission  and  into  a  large 
room.  The  frontiersman  motioned  him  to  a  seat 
near  the  door. 

Jose,  absorbed  in  thought,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
floor,  gave  but  scant  attention  to  his  surroundings. 
He  was  thinking  of  his  home  in  the  pueblo ;  of  the 
veranda  where  he  had  been  wont  to  sit  with 
Manuel  and  Delfina ;  of  the  last  day  he  had  seen 
her  at  the  river's  edge,  the  day  of  the  army's 
20 


302  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

return,  when  with  love  in  her  eyes  she  had  almost 
begged  him  to  return  home.  And  now  he  was 
going  to  die  and  he  would — 

"Jos6  Arillo,  stand  up." 

Jos6  rose  to  his  feet,  his  eyes  still  on  the  floor. 

"You  are  accused  of  being  a  spy  in  the  service 
of  the  rebels.  Are  you  guilty  or  not  guilty?" 
It  was  the  monotonous  official  voice  of  Lieutenant 
Somers,  who  was  seated  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

Jos6  raised  his  head  and  glanced  toward  the 
officers.  Suddenly  his  eyes  lit  on  Somers.  A 
strange  change  came  over  the  boy's  countenance. 
Vanished  instantly  was  the  expression  of  dread. 
Though  the  unshed  tears  still  glistened  on  his 
lashes,  a  happy,  peaceful  smile  wreathed  his 
mouth.  For  a  moment  he  swayed  slightly. 
Then  with  arms  bent  at  the  elbows,  hands  and 
fingers  relaxed,  his  head  thrust  slightly  to  the 
front,  he  stepped  quickly  forward,  the  fixed, 
unseeing  look  of  the  somnambulist  on  his  face. 

Softly,  so  softly  that  no  one  in  the  room  could 
hear  a  sound,  he  crept  on,  placing  one  foot  before 
the  other  with  the  utmost  caution. 

"Here,  lad,  you  come  back!  They  don't  want 
you  over  there,"  ordered  the  startled  guard. 

Jos6  was  halfway  down  the  room  now,  creeping 
forward  with  his  slow,  noiseless  step. 

"God  a'mighty,  look  at  Somers!"  gasped  a 
frontiersman. 


THE  DREAM  OF  JOSE  EL  RUFO    303 

The  lieutenant  was  on  his  feet,  bending  forward, 
his  hands  on  the  table,  his  eyes  wide  open  in  a 
wondering  stare. 

The  room  was  silent,  a  silence  tense  and  oppres 
sive,  as,  motionless,  all  stared  at  the  two  figures, 
Jose  tiptoeing  forward,  steadily,  surely,  noise 
lessly;  Lieutenant  Somers,  his  face  pale,  his  form 
rigid  as  a  statue.  In  the  very  air  was  the  chill 
of  something  mysterious,  something  uncanny. 
The  breathing  of  the  men  could  be  heard  in  the 
hushed  stillness. 

For  Jose  had  seen  before  him,  in  the  ruddy  head 
of  Lieutenant  Somers,  outlined  against  the  flag 
on  the  wall,  his  familiar  vision  of  the  night. 

"Heavens!"  whispered  the  guard.  "Look  at 
them!  Them  two  look  as  much  alike — "  A 
warning  touch  on  the  arm  struck  him  silent. 

Jose,  his  eyes  still  riveted  on  Somers,  reached 
the  table,  and  as  his  outstretched  hands  touched 
it  there  burst  from  his  lips,  in  a  glad  triumphant 
cry,  a  cry  that  was  half  a  joyous  scream,  his  one 
English  word :  ' '  Father ! ' ' 

Then  his  figure  went  limp ;  his  eyes  closed.  He 
tottered,  and  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor  had 
not  one  of  the  officers  caught  him  and  laid  him 
gently  on  a  bench. 

Tenderly  they  bore  him  to  his  cot,  and  though 
the  doctor  worked  over  him  for  an  hour,  repeated 
shakings  and  the  application  of  stimulants  failed 


3o4  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

to  awaken  him.  He  sank  back  limp,  but  on  his 
curving  lips  was  a  smile  of  ineffable  content. 

Through  the  afternoon  and  into  the  night  Jos6 
slept,  a  sleep  apparently  of  utter  exhaustion. 
Hour  after  hour  in  the  darkness  of  the  cell  Somers 
sat  and  waited,  his  soul  torn  with  hope  and  fear. 

Could  this  be  his  son — his  little  son — the 
prattling  youngster  of  four  with  his  mother's 
gray  eyes,  the  boy  whom  he  had  believed  dead, 
killed  fourteen  years  before  in  an  earthquake  in 
Valparaiso,  Chile?  From  the  ruins  they  had 
taken  the  mangled  form  of  his  mother,  but  no 
trace  of  the  child  had  ever  been  found.  For 
days,  for  weeks,  the  broken-hearted  man  had 
haunted  the  spot,  only  in  the  end  to  relinquish 
all  hope. 

It  was  nearing  midnight.  The  boy  on  the 
cot  stirred  restlessly.  Somers  stole  to  the  bed 
side,  and  stared  down  at  the  motionless  figure. 
The  moonlight  falling  aslant  through  the  barred 
window  fell  on  the  lad's  uncovered  eyes.  He 
sighed,  and  moved  his  head;  hurriedly  the  man 
retreated  to  the  darkness  of  the  corner. 

Burning  with  impatience,  he  could  wait  no 
longer. 

"Boy,"  he  asked  softly,  "what  is  your  name, 
your  real  name?" 

"Jose  el  Rufo,  they  call  me,"  came  from  the  cot 
in  sleepy  tones,  "but  I  am  Jose  Arillo.  My  real 


THE  DREAM  OF  JOSE  EL  RUFO    305 

name — I — know — not."  The  voice  trailed  away 
into  sleep. 

"Is  Arillo  your  father?"  again  came  the  voice 
from  the  corner. 

The  boy  sat  slowly  upright,  leaning  on  one  arm. 

' '  No ;  Don  Jose  Antonio  is  not  my  father.  My 
real  father — I  do  not  know  his  name.  But  I 
have  seen  him  often." 

In  the  dreamy  monotonous  tone  of  the  som 
nambulist,  the  boy's  voice  rambled  on,  telling 
the  story  of  his  strange  dreams,  the  memories  of 
his  parents,  the  narrow  street  where  the  laden 
donkeys  went  up  and  down,  the  sudden  night  of 
terror,  his  wanderings  with  the  Indians.  Sitting 
erect  on  the  cot,  Jose  was  still  dreaming,  dreaming 
that  he  was  telling  the  tale  to  Manuel,  as  he  had 
done  a  thousand  times. 

A  half  sigh,  half  sob  came  from  the  corner ;  then 
a  clicking  of  flint.  Somers  lighted  the  candle, 
and  waited. 

Jose,  his  eyes  wide  open,  stared  at  him.  Yes, 
he  was  dreaming  again.  That  was  his  father, 
seated  by  the  candle  light,  but — it  was  strange — 
there  was  no  table,  no  flag  behind  his  head. 

Rising  slowly  to  his  feet,  the  boy  stared  at 
Somers  for  a  moment.  Then  he  crept  stealthily 
toward  the  trembling  man.  Somers  sprang  up, 
rushed  to  him,  threw  his  arms  about  him,  and 
crushed  him  to  his  breast. 


306  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"My  son!    My  son!"  he  sobbed. 

Jos6,  the  hypnotic  look  still  on  his  face,  yielded 
to  the  embrace.  He  was  marveling  at  the  strange 
ness  of  the  vision.  Never  before  had  dream 
been  so  vivid  as  this.  He  placed  his  hand  on  the 
man's  shoulder,  and  drew  back  from  him  a  space. 

"Art  thou — thou — my  father?"  There  was 
a  world  of  doubt  and  awe  in  his  tones.  "What  is 
thy — what  is  my  name?  Who  am  I?" 

"As  God  lives,  I  believe  you  to  be  my  son. 
Your  name  is  Joseph  Franklin  Somers." 

"Joseph — Franklin — Somers,"  the  boy  re 
peated  incredulously.  Then  his  gaze  wandered 
around  the  dim-lit  room,  at  the  figure  of  the  man 
before  him,  at  his  own  arms  and  feet.  How  real 
it  all  seemed!  The  troubled,  puzzled  look  came 
again  to  his  face.  Oh,  if  he  could  only  know,  if 
there  were  some  way  to  know  whether  or  not  this 
were  but  another  dream! 

The  boy's  arm  shot  out.  Snatching  the  candle 
from  the  table,  he  resolutely  applied  the  flame  to 
the  fingers  of  his  other  hand. 

Somers  felt  a  wild  thrill  of  fear.  Had  the  boy 
gone  mad?  He  sprang  forward,  and  wrested  the 
candle  from  under  the  blackening  fingers. 

But  the  small  red  flame  had  done  its  work. 
Jose's  stinging  finger  ends  had  told  him  that  he 
was  in  truth  awake. 

"Oh!"  he  shouted  boisterously,  "it  is  real!     It 


THE  DREAM  OF  JOSE  EL  RUFO    307 

is  true!  It  is  no  dream!  Fatner!  My  father! 
I  know  you  are  real — real — real!"  He  was 
pounding  Somers  on  the  shoulder  in  a  wild  par 
oxysm  of  joy.  "This  time  I  shall  not  wake — I 
shall  not  wake!" 

The  candle,  fallen  to  the  floor,  flickered  for  a 
moment,  and  died.  Somers  sat  silent  in  the 
darkness,  Jose's  face  against  his  cheek,  his  arms 
about  his  son. 

Morning  dawned,  the  morning  Don  Jesus  Pico 
was  to  die.  The  frontiersmen  of  Fremont's 
command  openly  exulted  in  his  coming  fate.  Had 
he  not  broken  his  parole  of  honor,  bringing  war  to 
a  land  that  was  at  peace  ?  Had  it  not  been  he  — 
he  and  his  friends — who  had  caused  this  weary, 
wintry  march,  a  march  of  shivering  nights  and 
toiling,  rain-drenched  days?  Was  he  not  respon 
sible  for  the  bloodshed  at  Dominguez  and  San 
Pascual, — he  and  the  others  whom  Stockton  and 
Kearney  would  doubtless  hang  when  they  fell 
into  their  hands?  It  was  right  and  just  that 
"Tortoi"  Pico  should  die. 

Down  the  corridor  of  the  mission  came  a  veiled 
woman,  a  child  in  her  arms  and  two  others  clinging 
to  her  skirts.  The  guard  at  the  door  of  Colonel 
Fremont's  headquarters,  half  dozing,  allowed  her 
to  enter. 

Fremont,  seated  at  a  table,  pen  in  hand,  looked 


3o8  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

up  at  the  intrusion.  He  was  a  spare  man,  with 
sharp,  clear-cut  features  and  a  ragged  beard. 
His  eyes — wonderful  eyes  they  were,  dark  and 
brilliant,  strong  and  penetrating — stared  inquir 
ingly  at  the  visitors. 

As  he  stepped  toward  them  the  woman  fell  to 
her  knees  and  threw  her  arms  about  his  mud- 
stained  leggings. 

"Oh,  senor,  do  not  kill  him!  I  beg  of  you,  do 
not  kill  him !  He  did  not  know  he  was  committing 
such  a  crime.  He  was  but  ashamed  to  stay  at 
home  when  the  other  hijos  del  pais  went  to  fight 
for  the  land.  Do  not  kill  him!" 

Fremont's  brow  was  wrinkled  in  perplexity; 
his  splendid  eyes  were  troubled.  The  children 
joined  their  shrill  voices  to  their  mother's  wails. 

"Oh,  senor,"  she  pleaded  "will  you  make  these 
little  ones  fatherless?  Oh,  have  pity,  senor,  have 
pity!" 

But  there  was  no  sign  of  relenting  in  the  colonel's 
face  as  he  lifted  the  weeping  woman  to  her  feet. 

"Sefiora,"  he  said  in  an  even  voice,  "I  can  make 
no  promises,  nor  hold  out  any  false  hopes.  Go 
home  and  remain  there  quietly.  I  will  notify  you 
of  my  decision,  before  anything  is  done." 

As  Captain  Owens,  one  of  Fremont's  staff, 
closed  the  door  behind  them,  the  colonel  drew  his 
hand  across  his  sweat-bedewed  brow. 

"God,  Owens,  this  is  awful.     Sooner  would  I 


THE  DREAM  OF  JOSE  EL  RUFO    309 

meet  a  thousand  of  them  with  arms  in  their  hands 
than  one  weeping  woman." 

Lieutenant  Somers  entered  the  room.  They 
both  stared  at  him  in  wonder.  Was  this  the 
somber  man  at  whose  melancholy  mien  they  had 
marveled  since  first  they  knew  him?  On  his 
lips  was  a  happy  smile,  and  in  his  eye  a  sparkle 
as  of  youth  regained. 

Fremont  walked  back  and  forth  across  the  room 
with  his  quick,  nervous  step.  Only  an  hour  ago 
he  had  received  dispatches  from  Stockton  in 
which  the  commodore  expressed  a  hope  of  the 
capture  of  Don  Jesus  Pico. 

But  the  kindly  heart  of  the  Pathfinder  had 
been  touched  by  the  sight  of  the  weeping  woman 
and  the  clinging  children.  And  the  dispatch 
bearer  who  had  secretly  entered  their  lines  in  the 
night,  was  a  son  of  his  trusted  officer.  For  him 
he  had  issued  a  pardon  at  once. 

"Pico's  execution  is  set  for  ten  o'clock,  colonel," 
said  Owens.  "It  lacks  but  five  minutes  now. 
Be  lenient,  colonel,  if  it  is  possible,"  he  pleaded. 

Fremont  walked  to  the  window  and,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  stood  motionless  for  a  few  moments, 
gazing  at  his  men  drawn  up  in  readiness  for  the 
execution. 

"Bring  Pico  to  me.     Then  leave  us  alone,"  he 
ordered. 
.    The  cousin  of  Don  Andreas  was  a  dark,  slight 


3io  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

man,  with  the  mien  of  a  born  aristocrat.  Though 
his  face  was  gray  and  haggard,  he  was  of  the  Pico 
stock,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  flinching  in  his 
steady  gaze  as  he  looked  into  the  eyes  of  the 
Pathfinder. 

The  American  pointed  out  the  window  to  the 
troops  on  parade,  and  asked  in  a  harsh  tone, 
' '  Don  Jesus  Pico,  do  you  know  what  that  means  ? " 

"It  means" — there  was  little  tremor  in  Pico's 
voice — "that  I  am  about  to  die." 

Through  the  open  window  came  the  careless 
laughter  of  the  frontiersmen;  then  the  door 
opened  and  a  voice  said,  "Corporal's  guard  for 
the  prisoner,  colonel;  it  is  ten  o'clock." 

Fremont  was  still  staring  out  the  window. 
Deathlike  was  the  silence  in  the  room,  save  for 
the  nervous  tapping  of  the  Pathfinder's  fingers 
on  the  window  ledge. 

Slowly  he  turned,  his  eyes  again  meeting  Pico's 
fairly.  He  seemed  to  be  waiting. 

The  bearded  lips  of  the  Californian  trembled 
slightly,  but  he  was  silent.  The  pride  of  the  Picos 
was  his;  he  could  not  beg  for  his  life. 

"Don  Jesus,"  Fremont  said,  whimsically,  "you 
are  a  brave  man;  you  are  almost  as  brave  as  you 
are  lucky  in  having  such  a  wife.  Go  thank  her — 
she  has  saved  you." 

First  white,  then  joyous  crimson  went  the 
face  of  Don  Jesus.  He  reeled  slightly,  then  falling 


THE  DREAM  OF  JOSE  EL  RUFO    311 

on  his  knees  he  crossed  his  forefingers  high  above 
his  head. 

"I  was  to  die,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  quivering 
with  emotion.  "I  had  lost  the  life  God  gave  me. 
You  have  given  me  another.  My  new  life  I 
devote  to  you — by  this  cross  I  swear  it." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

AT  THE   "PASO  DE   BARTOLO" 

A  T  the  ford  of  the  San  Gabriel  River  known 
•**•  as  the  Paso  de  Bartolo,  ten  miles  from  Los 
Angeles,  the  Calif  ornians  were  awaiting  the  coming 
of  Stockton. 

The  stream,  swollen  full  and  wide  by  recent 
rains,  lay  below  them  about  five  hundred  yards 
away,  both  banks  fringed  by  a  heavy  growth  of 
underbrush.  Beyond  the  river  the  road,  for  the 
possession  of  which  Castilian  and  American  were 
to  battle  that  fateful  8th  of  January,  1847,  sloped 
gently  down  to  the  water's  edge.  On  the  Cali- 
fornian  side  a  bluff  swept  in  a  long  bow-like  curve 
away  from  the  stream,  inclosing  within  its  curving 
arms  a  little  plain.  Reappearing  at  the  water's 
edge,  the  trail  shot  across  the  crescent-shaped 
flat,  and  climbed  the  hill  at  the  middle  point 
of  the  curve,  exactly  in  the  center  of  the  Cali- 
fornian  position. 

"They  are  coming,  father;  I  can  see  them." 
Manuel  Arillo  rose  excitedly  in  his  stirrups,  and 
pointed  to  a  black  smudge  in  the  distance. 

"Look,  father,  over  there." 

Don  Jos6  nodded  and,  sighing  deeply,  turned 
away  to  speak  with  an  aide  of  Flores  who  had 
cantered  up  with  orders. 

312 


AT  THE  "PASO  DE  BARTOLO"      313 

Steadily,  as  if  on  parade,  the  Americans  ad 
vanced  down  the  long  slope.  As  Olivas,  the 
courier,  had  reported,  they  were  all  on  foot, 
marching  in  a  square,  the  cattle  and  the  wagons  in 
the  center,  the  cannon  at  the  corners.  Stockton's 
attempts  to  secure  mounts  for  his  men  had 
proved  unsuccessful.  The  strategy  of  Flores 
had  swept  the  land  almost  clear  of  both  horses 
and  cattle. 

Quickly  Flores  placed  his  troops  in  position. 
Directly  across  the  road,  as  it  topped  the  concave 
height,  were  set  Arillo's  four  guns,  to  the  right  the 
squadron  of  Don  Manuel  Garfias,  to  the  left 
Don  Andreas  Pico  with  his  veterans  of  the  San 
Pascual  campaign.  Hugo  Vanuela  and  his  com 
pany  of  Indians  were  ordered  to  cross  the  river 
and  conceal  themselves  in  the  shrubbery  at  the 
water's  edge. 

The  slowly  moving  square,  with  its  center  of 
tossing  horned  heads,  halted  a  half-mile  from 
the  stream.  From  the  sides  of  the  square  broke 
out,  in  groups  of  twos  and  threes,  fifty  tin- 
uniformed  men.  Hastily  falling  into  a  skirmish 
line,  ten  paces  apart,  they  strode  on  toward  the 
river.  Far  beyond  the  range  of  the  escopetas 
were  they  when  Vanuela  whispered  to  his 
lieutenant.  The  latter  stared  his  amazement, 
but  after  a  moment's  hesitation  gave  the  order 
to  fire. 


3i4  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

The  straggling  line  of  bushes  by  the  water  burst 
into  smoke,  but  not  for  a  moment  did  the  frontiers 
men  hesitate.  Contemptuously  ignoring  the  esco- 
peta  bullets,  plowing  up  the  sod  in  front  of 
them,  they  swung  on  in  a  long,  steady  stride. 
Hurriedly  Vanuela  and  his  skirmishers  vacated 
the  shrubbery  and  retreated  across  the  stream. 

On  to  the  water's  edge  swept  Kit  Carson  and 
his  men,  among  them  Jim  Marshall.  Lost  to 
sight  were  they  for  a  moment  as  they  broke 
through  the  bushes.  Then,  wading  boldly  into 
the  stream,  they  pressed  on,  the  current  rippling 
about  their  chins,  their  rifles  held  high  above  their 
heads. 

Halfway  across  were  they  when  the  crash  of 
the  Californian  cannon  broke  the  stillness.  The 
surface  of  the  stream,  torn  with  grapeshot, 
showered  the  struggling  skirmishers  with  blinding 
spray.  But  not  a  man  fell.  Unfalteringly  they 
pressed  on,  dragged  themselves  out  of  the  stream, 
and  took  cover  under  a  wave-bitten  bank  close 
to  the  water's  edge. 

"For  Dios,  but  that  was  magnificent,"  mur 
mured  Don  Augustin,  as  he  dipped  into  his  snuff 
box.  "Ah,"  he  sighed,  "that  their  commander 
were  as  generous  as  his  men  are  brave!" 

From  the  bank  below,  the  rifles  of  the  frontiers 
men  were  popping  irregularly,  but  without  effect. 
Knowing  well  their  deadly  marksmanship,  Flores 


AT  THE  "PASO  DE  BARTOLO"     315 

had  not  been  taken  unawares.  Even  before  the 
line  had  scrambled  out  of  the  water,  the  Cali- 
fornian  cannon  had  been  withdrawn  a  few  yards, 
while  the  mounted  squadrons  retreated  from  the 
edge  of  the  bluff,  till  even  the  heads  of  the  horses 
were  hidden  by  the  curve  of  the  hill. 

From  beyond  the  river  came  a  reverberating 
roar.  Two  of  Stockton's  cannon  at  the  edge  of 
the  stream  were  thundering  out  a  response  to 
Arillo's  fire.  A  few  yards  up  the  slope  the 
square  waited.  The  skirmishers,  lying  on  the 
sandy  beach  beneath  the  bank,  could  hear  above 
them  the  shrill  screech  of  the  missiles  as  the  Cali- 
fornian  guns  boomed  back  defiantly. 

Marshall  grinned  as  he  noted  the  Californian 
grapeshot  falling  into  the  water  with  a  plumping 
sound. 

' '  Not  kick  enough  to  them  cannon.  Not  enough 
powder,"  he  commented  to  Kit  Carson,  lying  on 
the  sand  beside  him.  "Jehosophat,  but  Arillo  is 
doing  poor  shooting.  He  did  better  than  that 
at  Dominguez." 

Confusion  and  hesitation  were  apparent  among 
the  Americans  on  the  far  bank.  Their  cannonade 
had  ceased,  though  the  enemy's  guns  were  still 
booming.  General  Kearney,  his  face  grave  with 
apprehension,  strode  over  to  Stockton. 

' '  The  river  bed  is  full  of  quicksand,  commodore," 
he  announced. 


3i6  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"Damn  the  quicksand!  Go  ahead!  Carson's 
men  did  it,"  Stockton  snapped  back. 

In  a  moment  the  water  was  full  of  struggling 
men,  tugging  at  the  cannon  ropes,  stopping 
every  now  and  then  to  wrest  their  feet  from  the 
clutching  sands  or  to  assist  a  sinking  comrade. 

Over  them  roared  the  artillery  duel.  Arillo 
was  getting  the  range.  Many  of  his  shots  were 
dropping  among  the  confused  mass  of  toiling, 
half -submerged  Americans;  but  they  seemed 
strangely  ineffectual.  Here  and  there  a  sailor, 
bruised  or  stunned  by  the  grapeshot,  was  carried 
senseless  to  the  bank  or  laid  on  a  baggage  cart. 
The  two  other  American  guns,  still  roaring 
from  the  bank,  were  firing  as  many  shots  as 
Arillo's  four. 

Near  to  Arillo's  battery  Hugo  Vanuela,  leaning 
on  his  saddle,  was  watching  curiously  the  effect 
of  the  Californian  fire.  The  near  half  of  the 
stream,  whipped  into  a  cloud  of  foam  at  every 
discharge,  told  that  most  of  the  shots  were  falling 
short.  Hugo  grinned  complacently.  The  powder 
was  fulfilling  all  his  expectations  for  inefficiency. 
Well,  indeed,  had  he  done  his  work  in  the  few 
short  moments  after  his  bloody  knife  had  sent 
Eugene  MacNamara  to  meet  his  God.  The 
Americans,  he  meditated,  could  refuse  him  nothing 
when,  in  the  days  to  come,  they  learned  the  truth. 

With  an  earth-shaking  roar,  the  six  American 


AT  THE  "PASO  DE  BARTOLO"     317 

guns,  now  safely  across  the  river,  thundered  out 
simultaneously.  The  horses  of  the  gun  crew  on 
the  bluff  above  tumbled  over  in  a  bleeding  heap. 
Quickly  the  Calif ornians  cut  the  riatas  and, 
substituting  other  horses,  whisked  their  cannon 
back.  Two  of  the  gun  crew  lay  dead  on  the 
ground. 

The  cattle,  bellowing  in  terror  and  urged  on  by 
the  shouting  Americans,  were  slowly  drawing  out 
of  the  water.  Still  stuck  in  the  middle  of  the  river 
were  the  baggage  wagons,  around  them  a  group 
of  shouting,  excited  sailors. 

Arillo's  cannon,  reloaded,  were  again  shot  for 
ward  to  the  edge  of  the  incline.  At  the  brink  of 
the  stream  Stockton  himself,  just  emerging  from 
the  water,  glanced  up  and  caught  sight  of  them. 

' '  Stand  aside,"  he  ordered  the  marine.  Bending 
over  the  piece,  the  commodore  sighted  it  and 
applied  the  linstock.  Into  a  thousand  splinters 
flew  the  wooden  carriage  of  one  of  the  cannons  on 
the  bluff;  the  gun  itself  reared  wildly  on  end,  and 
then  tumbled  helplessly  to  the  ground. 

By  the  water's  edge  all  was  confusion  and 
disarray.  To  hold  the  wild  range  cattle  in  a 
compact  mass  and  to  reform  the  square  about 
them  was  no  easy  task.  Amidst  the  roars  of  the 
frenzied  beasts,  the  ineffectual  popping  of  the  rifles, 
the  shouts  of  the  excited  sailors,  moved  Lieuten 
ant  John  Carroll.  With  Captain  Gillie,  he  was 

21 


3i8  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

busily  engaged  in  reducing  the  confused  mass  to 
a  semblance  of  order.  Slowly  the  cattle  were 
being  urged  out  on  the  level  flat;  little  by  little 
the  sailors  were  forming  in  line  about  them. 

The  lieutenant  glanced  up  at  the  top  of  the 
bluff.  Above  the  curve  of  the  hill  suddenly 
appeared  a  row  of  horses'  heads. 

"Captain,"  he  shouted  to  Gillie,  his  voice 
rising  above  the  tumult,  "they  are  going  to 
charge!" 

Down  the  slope  raced  the  whole  of  Pico's 
squadron.  They  paused  for  a  moment  well  out 
of  rifle  range,  their  lances  leveled.  Then  with 
a  wild  yell  they  dashed  on  the  half -formed  side 
of  the  square. 

"Hold  your  fire,  men, —  keep  cool!  Line  up! 
Line  up!"  shouted  Gillie,  as  men  came  running 
from  all  parts  of  the  field  to  fill  the  gaps  in  the 
ranks. 

On  came  the  indomitable  Pico  at  a  furious 
gallop,  his  front  a  solid  mass  of  tossing  manes  and 
bristling  lance  points. 

"Fire!"  shouted  Gillie. 

But  the  volley  from  the  broken  line  was  scatter 
ing  and  uncertain. 

Through  the  smoke  in  front  of  Carroll  broke  a 
dozen  rearing  horses,  full  on  the  bayonets  of  the 
sailors.  Thrusting  upward,  he  drove  his  sword 
into  the  neck  of  a  horse  whose  bent  forelegs  hung 


AT  THE  "PASO  DE  BARTOLO"      319 

menacingly  above  him,  and  sprang  aside  to  escape 
being  crushed  by  the  falling  animal.  On  either 
side  of  him  a  dozen  Californians,  their  bodies 
swung  low  behind  their  horses,  were  jabbing 
viciously  at  the  Americans.  Lance  shaft  was 
clashing  on  bayonet  and  musket  barrel.  Another 
dying  horse,  pierced  by  a  dozen  bayonets,  pitched 
sidewise  full  into  the  ranks  of  the  sailors.  Through 
the  shrouding  smoke  the  lieutenant  saw  the  line 
sway,  waver  for  a  moment,  and  then  spring  back 
to  place. 

Suddenly  the  bugle  blared  from  the  heights 
above.  The  dim-seen  forms  of  mounted  men  in 
front  of  them  melted  away.  As  the  smoke  cleared, 
the  Californians,  in  straggling  groups,  could  be 
seen  retreating  up  the  bluff.  The  charge  had  failed. 

Flores  had  ordered  the  bugle  to  sound  the 
retreat.  Looking  down  through  the  clinging 
smoke,  he  knew  that  the  attack  was  a  failure 
even  before  those  engaged  were  aware  of  it.  No 
more  than  fifty  of  Pico's  horsemen  had  reached 
the  American  line.  Many  were  yet  yards  away, 
still  struggling  madly  with  their  excited  mounts, 
crazed  by  the  roar  of  the  rifle  fire.  Others,  whose 
horses  had  fallen  in  the  deadly  volley  from  the 
ranks,  were  hurriedly  dragging  their  saddles  from 
their  slaughtered  mounts.  Many  wounded  men 
were  clinging  weakly  to  the  stirrups  of  their 
comrades. 


320  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

The  Americans  were  cheering  deliriously,  the 
hoarse,  throaty  shout  of  the  Anglo-Saxon.  They 
had  met  a  Californian  charge  led  by  the  dashing 
Pico  himself,  and  repelled  it. 

Gathering  his  officers  about  him,  Commandant 
Flores  gave  orders  for  a  general  assault — a  final 
effort  that  would  decide  the  day. 

"Don  Manuel,  you  take  them  on  the  left; 
Don  Andreas,  on  the  right,  as  before;  Captain 
Vanuela,  you  will  charge  with  your  company 
directly  down  the  road." 

There  was  no  confusion  now  among  the  Amer 
icans.  The  steel-tipped  square  was  advancing 
slowly,  step  by  step,  across  the  little  flat,  along 
the  road  toward  the  very  center  of  the  Californian 
position.  Every  man  was  in  place,  every  piece 
primed  and  loaded. 

Like  two  wide,  encircling  arms,  the  squadrons 
of  Garfias  and  Pico  crept  slowly  down  the  slopes 
on  the  right  and  left.  As  they  reached  the  level 
ground  their  pace  increased  to  a  trot.  Vanuela 
whispered  to  his  lieutenant,  who  went  quietly  to 
the  rear  of  the  company.  Francisco  Cota,  the 
Mexican  flag  over  his  shoulder,  trotted  up  and 
took  his  place  by  Vanuela's  side  at  the  head  of 
the  column. 

The  square  had  halted.  All  of  the  six  guns 
had  been  whirled  about,  and  their  gaping  muzzles 
were  pointed  full  on  Vanuela's  company.  The 


AT  THE  "PASO  DE  BARTOLO"     321 

gunners,  linstock  in  hand,  stood  awaiting  the  word 
of  command. 

With  reckless  bravery,  Cota  dashed  down  the 
slope,  waving  the  flag  above  his  head.  "Come 
on,  muchachos!"  he  shouted. 

Suddenly  he  reined  his  horse.  His  ear  missed 
the  sound  of  hoofbeats  behind  him.  Turning  his 
head,  he  was  amazed  to  find  that  he  was  alone, 
that  Vanuela's  company  had  halted  halfway 
down  the  slope.  For  a  moment  he  hesitated, 
then  trotted  back  up  the  trail,  indignant  surprise 
showing  in  his  face  as  he  stared  inquiringly  at 
Hugo. 

Below,  on  the  flat,  the  commands  of  Pico  and 
Garfias  had  halted  in  their  mad  career.  The 
officers,  catching  sight  of  the  retreating  colors, 
hesitated;  but  a  few  horsemen  dashed  on.  Others 
held  back,  shouting  warnings.  Their  formation 
was  lost,  the  fronts  of  both  lines  thrown  into 
confusion. 

At  that  moment  the  leveled  rifles  on  both  sides 
of  the  square  again  volleyed  smoke  and  flame. 
But  the  range  was  far,  the  marksmanship  of  the 
sailors  bad.  Puzzled  and  disheartened  at  the 
apparent  change  in  their  commander's  plans, 
the  two  squadrons  of  cavalry  scrambled  back  to 
the  top  of  the  bluff. 

"Why  didst  thou  turn  back,  Chito?"  inquired 
Flores. 


322  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"I  but  turned  to  see  why  the  company  was  not 
advancing,"  Cota  replied  with  proud  dignity. 
Again  he  stared  at  Vanuela  meaningly. 

"Do  not  misunderstand,  Chito,"  said  Flores. 
"No  one  doubts  thy  courage.  Why  did  you  not 
advance,  Senor  Vanuela?"  he  demanded  of  Hugo. 

Vanuela  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"For  fifty  men,"  he  responded  coolly,  "to 
charge  with  lances  a  square  where  six  loaded 
cannon  awaited  them  would  not  be  war;  it  would 
be  murder  or  suicide,  which  you  will.  Yet  would 
I  have  charged  the  square  as  soon  as  the  cannon 
were  fired,  and  Pico  and  Garfias  had  struck  the 
line.  Then  in  the  confusion  my  men  would 
have  been  of  assistance.  That  the  squadrons 
did  not  charge  is  not  my  fault." 

No  time  was  there  for  further  recrimination  or 
explanation.  The  battle  had  been  lost  almost  by 
default.  The  Californians  had  failed  to  take 
advantage  of  the  crucial  moment.  Already  the 
square  was  moving  in  its  deliberate  way  up  the 
slope  of  the  bluff. 

Hurriedly  the  Californians  withdrew  their  guns 
and  trailed  across  the  plain  to  the  foot  of  the 
hills,  where  they  made  camp  in  full  sight  of  the 
enemy.  But  two  Californians  and  one  American 
had  given  their  lives  in  the  day's  engagement, 
while  eight  wounded  sailors  lay  groaning  on 
Stockton's  baggage  wagons. 


AT  THE  "PASO  DE  BARTOLO"      323 

Slowly  the  sun  sank  in  a  blaze  of  molten  glory. 
From  Stockton's  camp  on  the  edge  of  the  bluff, 
above  the  river,  came  a  burst  of  throbbing  music. 
The  military  band  was  playing  the  "Star-Spangled 
Banner." 

With  strangely  mingled  emotions  the  Cali- 
fornians,  ever  lovers  of  melody,  listened  to  the 
thrilling  measures  floating  to  them  through  the 
deepening  dusk.  Though  the  triumphant  strains 
proclaimed  their  own  disheartening  defeat,  every 
horseman,  sitting  attentive  and  motionless  in  his 
saddle,  was  gravely  appreciative. 

"For  Dios,  but  that  is  beautiful — beautiful," 
murmured  Servolo  Palera.  "It  is  also  a  song; 
I  have  heard  Gillie's  men  sing  it  in  the  pueblo 
last  summer.  Knowest  thou  its  title,  Don 
Augustin?" 

"Yes,"  responded  Alvaro  with  a  little  sigh. 
"Juan  Carroll  has  told  me  of  it.  It  is  the  war  song 
of  the  Americans.  It  is  called,"  he  hesitated  as 
if  seeking  for  the  proper  words,  "it  is  called,  'the 
flag  with  the  bright  stars  scattered  over  it." 

Servolo  was  silent  for  a  moment.  In  his 
somber  eyes  was  a  strange,  unearthly  light,  as 
of  one  looking  down  a  long  vista  of  years. 

"Dios  de  mi  alma,"  he  sighed,  "perhaps  it 
may  be  in  the  distant  days  to  come  that  our 
children's  children,  forgetful  of  us,  may  sing  it  as 
their  very  own." 


324  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

The  music  ended.  The  American  bugle  blew 
"taps."  Over  the  wide,  rolling  plain,  the  river 
gorge,  the  low-lying  hills,  darkness  lowered. 
Palera,  riding  on  the  picket  line  between  the  two 
forces,  noted  the  American  camp  fires  breaking 
out  one  by  one  on  the  edge  of  the  river  bluff. 
From  the  heights  a  mile  away  the  quivering  points 
of  flame  that  marked  the  Californian  camp 
twinkled  back  in  cheery  response. 

Servolo  was  alone  in  the  shrouding  darkness  of 
the  plain.  Seated  in  his  saddle,  he  reverently 
bared  his  head,  and  gazed  up  at  the  star-lit  infinity. 

"Mary,  Mother  of  Sorrows,"  he  prayed,  "ask 
thy  Son  to  take  me  to  Himself,  if  I  be  worthy.  I 
care  not  to.  live — my  country  conquered,  my 
heart  dead  within,  my  friend  Ignacio  gone  before. 
Oh,  Father,  if  it  be  Thy  will,  let  me  go  to  him  and 
to  Thee.  My  soul  is  shriven.  I  am  ready  to 
die." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  LAST  STAND  OF  THE  CABALLERO 

/1pHROUGH  the  morning  mist  rippled  the 
•••  reveille  from  Stockton's  bugles.  The  sailors 
and  frontiersmen,  chilled  and  grumbling,  crept 
from  their  dew-soaked  blankets  and  hastily 
snatched  a  scanty  meal. 

Before  the  sun  had  lifted  above  the  eastern 
hills,  the  square  was  again  moving  steadily  on 
toward  Los  Angeles.  Slow  and  weary  was  the 
progress  of  the  little  army,  their  pace  set  by  the 
lean  and  hungry  cattle,  but  little  refreshed  by 
their  night's  foraging.  Around  the  command, 
as  it  crept  on  at  a  snail's  pace  over  the  level, 
treeless  plain,  hovered  groups  of  mounted  Cali- 
fornians,  well  out  of  rifle  range.  The  main  body 
of  the  enemy  was  nowhere  in  sight. 

As  the  sun  climbed  higher,  its  cheering  rays 
drying  the  clothing  and  wanning  the  chilled 
bodies  of  the  men,  their  good  humor  returned  and 
they  beguiled  the  tedium  of  the  march  with  jest 
and  laughter.  They  were  in  high  spirits.  Yester 
day  they  had  beaten  the  enemy,  and  taken  full 
revenge  for  San  Pascual.  To-night  the  rebellious 
pueblo  of  Our  Lady,  Queen  of  the  Angels  would  be 
theirs. 

The  afternoon  was  well  advanced  before  the 

325 


326  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

white  walls  of  the  town,  set  low  in  the  green 
stretch  of  river  bottom,  lifted  into  view.  The 
sailors  in  the  square,  three  deep  around  the 
cattle  and  the  wagons,  were  gazing  curiously  at 
the  end  of  their  long  march  when  Jim  Marshall, 
who  had  been  marching  with  the  skirmishers  some 
distance  ahead  of  the  command,  hurried  back. 

"The  enemy  is  in  sight,  sir,"  he  announced  to 
Stockton,  "over  there  to  the  right  in  a  hollow." 

"Give  orders  to  load  with  ball  and  three 
buckshot,"  the  commodore  commanded.  For  a 
few  moments  the  square  halted  until  muskets 
and  rifles  were  charged 

Lieutenant  Carroll,  on  the  right  of  the  column, 
turned  his  glass  toward  the  sycamores  in  the 
hollow.  He  could  see  the  entire  Californian  force 
ranged  in  a  semicircle,  facing  a  mounted  officer, 
who,  sombrero  in  hand,  was  addressing  them 
vigorously.  Softened  by  distance,  the  speaker's 
voice  came  to  the  Americans  as  a  low  murmur. 

"That's  Flores,  I  suppose,"  remarked  Stockton, 
as  he  handed  the  glass  to  Gillie.  "He  is  trying 
to  stir  them  up  to  make  another  stand  after 
their  drubbing  yesterday  at  the  river.  We  will 
march  right  on.  We  are  not  going  to  chase  him, 
much  as  he  would  like  it.  We  are  going  right 
on  to  the  pueblo." 

"No,"  responded  Gillie,  the  glass  still  at  his 
eye,  "that  is  not  Flores;  it  is  some  one  else." 


LAST  STAND  OF  THE  CABALLERO  327 

The  captain  was  right.  The  orator  who,  with 
graceful  gestures  and  impassioned  words,  was 
speaking  to  the  listening  Californians  was  Servolo 
Palera.  To  the  disheartened  men  he  was  making 
an  appeal  for  a  final  effort. 

"Men,  brothers,  Californians,"  he  was  saying, 
"yesterday  for  two  long  hours  you  fought  the 
enemy,  believing  them  to  be  soldiers.  To-day 
we  know  them  to  be  but  sailors. 

"Yesterday,  you  with  your  few  guns  and 
miserable  powder  held  them  in  check  at  the  river 
for  two  hours.  To-day  we  will  face  them  on  the 
level  mesa,  where,  in  one  mighty  charge,  we  can 
break  their  lines  and  have  them  at  the  mercy  of 
our  lances.  Four  times  already  have  you  met 
them ;  three  times  have  you  defeated  them.  How 
can  you  hesitate? 

"Men  of  Spanish  blood,  remember  the  deeds 
of  your  fathers.  Make  not  their  spirits,  who  are 
even  now  looking  down  upon  us  from  their  home 
above,  ashamed  of  their  sons. 

"Think,  brothers,  of  the  days  to  come.  Shall 
the  tale  be  told  that  we,  four  hundred  strong, 
waited  idly  here  while  the  Americans,  no  greater 
in  numbers,  without  horses,  marched  unharmed 
and  unhindered  into  our  beloved  pueblo? 

"We  shall  win.  God  is  with  us.  Let  us  crush 
them,  and  capture  Commodore  Stockton.  Never 
shall  the  tale  be  told  to  our  children's  children 


328  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

that  we,  their  fathers,  failed — failed  them  at  the 
last.  For  the  sake  of  the  weeping  women  yonder 
in  the  pueblo,  for  this  land  your  fathers  won  by  the 
sword,  for  the  soil  that  holds  their  sacred  bones, 
for  your  tongue,  for  your  faith, — in  God's  name, 
strike  but  one  more  blow.  Whether  life  or 
death,  victory  or  defeat  await  us  on  yonder 
plain,  let  us  do  our  duty  like  men. 

"Sing,  friends,  sing!"  He  threw  up  his  arms, 
wide  apart,  and  his  rich  tenor  voice  broke  forth: 

"Our  pulses  thrill  at  the  wondrous  tale 

Of  their  deeds  in  the  days  of  old. 
Oh!  can  it  be  our  cheeks  grow  pale, 
Our  hearts  grow  weak  and  cold? 

"Shall  strangers  rule  our  fathers'  land, 

In  sorrow,  grief,  and  pain? 
Oh!  face  once  more  their  robber  band, 
Ye  Sons  of  Ancient  Spain." 

Every  sombrero  was  raised  wildly  aloft;  every 
lance  shaft  waved  frantically;  from  every  Cali- 
fornian  throat  came  a  yell  of  defiance.  Moved 
by  the  pathetic  wistfulness  in  his  somber,  youthful 
face,  thrilled  by  his  impassioned  words,  touched  to 
the  heart  by  his  appeal  to  their  pride  of  race,  their 
momentary  depression  vanished  and  they  threw 
their  voices  full  pitched  into  the  chorus. 

"There's  that  same  old  song,"  commented 
Gillie  as  the  distant  rhythm  of  the  singing  drifted 
across  the  plain.  "Some  kind  of  hymn,  I  sup 
pose." 


LAST  STAND  OF  THE  CABALLERO    329 

Lieutenant  Carroll,  trudging  by  his  side,  made 
no  answer.  His  face  was  drawn  and  tired,  his 
heart  anxious;  he  dreaded  the  events  of  the 
morrow.  Fondly  had  he  hoped  that  yesterday's 
skirmish  at  the  river  had  marked  the  end  of 
hostilities,  but  again  he  was  to  face  in  a  death 
struggle  the  men  whose  nobility  of  soul  had 
compelled  his  admiration. 

But  the  soldier  in  him  brought  him  up  with  a 
sharp  turn.  He  must  remember  that  the  Cali- 
fornians  were  his  enemies,  the  enemies  of  his 
country.  Arillo  his  enemy,  Servolo  his  enemy, 
Alvaro  his  enemy?  He  sighed  wearily. 

Marshall,  at  his  elbow,  looked  at  his  friend 
sympathetically. 

"Tired,  lieutenant?" 

"No,  Jim,  just  thinking." 

"Now,  lieutenant,"  whispered  Marshall,  "jest 
you  quit  worryin'.  The  commodore  ain't  goin' 
to  do  no  hangin'  business.  If  he  tries  it,  General 
Kearney  won't  let  him.  Them  two  has  been 
fightin'  ever  since  we  left  San  Diego.  When 
generals  fight,  plain  folks  get  their  dues." 

"Jim,  Jim,"  warned  Carroll,  "you  mustn't 
talk  about  that." 

"All  right,  lieutenant,  all  right.  Jehosophat," 
he  went  on  in  a  still  lower  tone,  "but  this  is  the 
finest  country!  Do  you  know,  it  seems  to  me 
that  the  sunny,  summer  morning  that  the  Lord 


330  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

made  California  he  didn't  do  anything  else  that 
day  but  jest  lie  around  feeling  good  over  it?  As 
soon  as  ever  I  kin  git  out  of  the  army  I  am  goin' 
to  buy  me  that  rancho  and  that  white  hoss  I  was 
tellin'  you  about.  I  got  the  coin  right  over  in 
the  pueblo,  all  right." 

In  spite  of  his  somber  thoughts,  Carroll  was 
amused.  Marshall  was  generally  a  truthful  man, 
save  when  he  touched  upon  the  one  matter  of  his 
wealth;  then  he  overflowed  with  braggadocio. 
Jim  had  never  shown  any  great  wealth  of  coin. 

"When  we  onct  gets  settled  down  in  the 
pueblo,"  he  continued,  "I  got  the  dingdest  piece 
of  news,  something  no  one  but  Jim  Marshall 
knows,  to  tell  you.  But  when  the  time  comes 
I  '11  send  it  richochetting  around  the  world.  But 
no  one  but  you  and  me's  goin1  to  know  it  till  it 
is  a  dead  sure  thing  that  this  country  belongs  to 
Uncle  Sam,  then—" 

His  voice  was  drowned  in  the  roar  of  the 
Californian  cannon  from  the  brink  of  the  de 
pression. 

Their  aim  was  good.  A  mule  attached  to  one 
of  the  field  pieces  at  the  forward  corner  of  the 
square,  shot  through  the  body,  was  struggling 
frantically,  throwing  the  other  animals  into  the 
wildest  confusion.  Another  ball  of  white  in  the 
hollow,  and  a  sailor  near  Marshall,  badly  wounded, 
pitched  sidewise  under  the  crowding  feet  of  the 


LAST  STAND  OF  THE  CABALLERO    331 

cattle.  For  a  few  moments  the  square  halted 
while  the  mule  was  exchanged  and  the  dying 
sailor  placed  on  one  of  the  carts.  Then  the 
stubborn,  plodding  march  was  resumed.  The 
lesson  of  San  Pascual  had  not  been  lost  on  Com 
modore  Stockton;  nothing  would  tempt  him  to 
abandon  his  square  formation  or  falter  in  his 
march  on  the  pueblo. 

Out  of  the  hollow  whirled  two  of  the  enemy's 
cannon,  bounding  along  at  the  ends  of  the  riatas. 
They  took  up  a  position  directly  across  the 
American  line  of  march. 

"That's  Don  Jos6  Antonio — there  in  front," 
said  Marshall,  "there  on  the  big  bay  horse." 

The  guns  left  in  the  hollow  roared  again,  but 
the  shot  went  screeching  harmlessly  over  the  heads 
of  the  Americans.  Then  Arillo's  guns  in  front 
joined  in  the  tumult.  One  of  the  round  shot, 
skipping  along  the  ground,  rebounded  into  the 
square,  knocking  down  several  men.  They  stag 
gered  to  their  feet,  bruised  and  breathless,  and 
dazed  with  astonishment  to  find  themselves  still 
alive. 

"Cheer  up,  Hans,"  remarked  Marshall,  as  he 
helped  one  of  them  into  a  cart,  "you  have  no  hurt 
but  a  few  broken  ribs.  It  takes  more  than  a 
little  thing  like  a  cannon  ball  to  kill  a  Dutchman. 
You  have  to  prove  it  to  a  Dutchman  he  is  dead 
before  he  will  die." 


332  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Stubbornly  the  square  plodded  on,  the  men 
fretting  and  fuming.  Were  they  to  creep  along 
all  day,  a  target  for  the  cannon  of  the  enemy? 
Under  the  strain  of  the  artillery  fire,  they  were 
becoming  nervous  and  apprehensive. 

The  guns  in  the  hollow,  one  of  them  the 
howitzer  captured  from  Kearney  at  San  Pascual, 
did  better  the  next  shot.  A  wild  commotion 
among  the  cattle,  and  a  shriek  of  agony  from  the 
far  side  of  the  square,  told  that  the  enemy  again 
had  the  range. 

"Halt!"  the  command  ran  around  the  square. 

Quickly  the  forward  American  guns  were 
unlimbered,  turned  on  the  depression,  and  roared 
forth  their  response,  the  thunder  of  their  reports 
mingling  with  the  sharper  boom  of  Arillo's  cannon 
in  front.  When  the  smoke  had  cleared  away,  the 
guns  at  the  brink  of  the  hollow  and  their  defenders 
had  disappeared. 

The  cannon  returned  to  their  place  at  the 
forward  corners  of  the  square,  and  the  Americans 
resumed  their  slow  march.  Out  of  the  hollow 
rode  the  entire  body  of  the  Californians.  Describ 
ing  a  wide  curve  well  out  of  range  of  the  American 
rifles,  they  took  up  a  position  in  front  of  Arillo's 
battery,  directly  across  the  road  leading  to  the 
pueblo.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  meaning  of 
the  maneuver;  the  artillery  duel  was  to  become 
a  pitched  battle. 


LAST  STAND  OF  THE  CABALLERO    333 

The  Americans  broke  into  a  cheer,  the  heavy 
hurrah  of  the  sailors  mingling  with  the  sharp 
Indian-like  yells  of  the  frontiersmen.  Gleefully 
they  looked  to  the  priming  of  their  pieces.  The 
enemy  was  going  to  fight — a  real  "stand  up" 
fight. 

Along  the  front  of  the  Californian  line  officers 
were  galloping,  shouting  sharp  commands  as  they 
placed  their  men  in  position.  A  short  distance 
behind  them,  a  body  of  vaqueros  led  several  hun 
dred  extra  horses. 

Never  again  will  the  blue  California  sky  look 
down  upon  such  a  scene  as  that  of  the  afternoon 
of  that  ever-to-be-remembered  day  of  January 
9,  1847.  It  was  a  spectacle,  magnificent,  majestic, 
thrilling,  of  its  kind  the  last  on  the  west  coast  of 
North  America. 

Slowly,  at  a  walk,  the  line  of  horsemen  advanced, 
above  them  a  forest  of  slender  lance  shafts,  tipped 
with  gaudy  pennons.  Here  and  there  fluttered 
flags  of  gorgeous  hues — flags  woven  by  the 
fingers  of  the  devoted  women  of  the  pueblo. 
Sharply  glittered  the  rays  of  the  declining  sun  on 
the  naked  sword  blades  of  the  officers,  the  steel  of 
the  lance  points,  the  silver  mountings  of  saddle, 
bit,  and  bridle. 

Brilliant  with  the  gay  colors  of  the  gaudy 
serapes,  undulating  with  the  tossing  manes  of  the 
mettlesome  horses,  the  whole  line  palpitated  with 

22 


334  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

life  and  motion.  They  were  singing  wild  and 
shrill  the  war  song  of  Palera,  their  voices  mingling 
with  the  tinkle  of  the  many  guitars,  and  the 
stirring  strains  of  the  bugles. 

More  than  one  brave  heart  beneath  the  proudly 
fluttering  pennons  knew  full  well  the  hopelessness 
of  their  cause,  knew  that  not  only  defeat  but 
perchance  the  disgraceful  death  of  a  felon  awaited 
them  at  the  hands  of  their  foes.  But  there  was 
no  flinching  and  no  faltering. 

The  spirit  of  the  ancient  Roman,  the  spirit  of 
the  conquering  Goth,  the  spirit  that  after  seven 
hundred  years  of  struggle  had  driven  the  Moor 
back  to  his  African  hills,  the  spirit  of  the  con- 
quistadores  of  Cortez  was  theirs.  The  gods  of  war 
might  have  abandoned  them,  but  in  this,  the 
last  stand  of  the  caballero,  naught  would  there  be 
lacking  of  the  proud  panoply  of  martial  array. 
If  fate  had  so  willed  that  they  must  go  down  to 
defeat,  they  would  go  with  flags  proudly  afloat, 
with  a  song  and  a  smile  on  their  lips,  with  the 
unbending  dignity  of  their  race. 

"Jehosophat,"  remarked  Marshall,  as  the 
Americans  waited  in  silence,  "if  that  doesn't 
remind  me  of  a  circus  parade  back  in  old  New 
Jersey." 

Flores,  riding  in  front  of  the  Californians, 
threw  up  his  hand.  The  advancing  line  broke 
in  the  center,  each  half  describing  a  wide  curve  to 


LAST  STAND  OF  THE  CABALLERO    335 

the  right  and  left.  As  they  swung  around,  their 
pace  quickened  to  a  trot.  The  singing  ceased, 
and  with  a  piercing,  simultaneous  yell  down 
came  the  lances,  and  the  two  divisions  charged, 
full  tilt,  both  sides  of  the  square. 

Against  the  charging  squadrons  burst  the 
thundering  crash  of  musketry.  Both  sides  of  the 
square  bristled  with  living  streaks  of  fire.  The 
sky,  the  plain,  the  distant  hills,  the  oncoming 
wave  of  horsemen  were  blotted  out  by  the  billow 
ing  smoke. 

On  the  Californian  side  one  man  drew  out  of 
the  smoke  cloud  and  with  a  grim  smile  listened 
to  the  roar  of  battle.  He,  and  he  alone,  knew  why, 
on  that  broad  mesa  by  the  Pueblo  of  the  Angels, 
a  thousand  men,  with  the  lust  of  killing  hot  in 
their  hearts,  were  seeking  one  another's  lives.  It 
was  the  work  of  his  cunning  brain.  He,  and  he 
alone,  was  the  war  maker. 

Slowly  the  smoke  cleared.  The  entire  front  of 
the  Californian  line  was  in  confusion,  a  mass  of 
struggling,  wounded  horses  whose  agonizing 
screams  echoed  over  the  plain.  Carroll,  peering 
through  the  lingering  smoke,  noted  that  not  a 
single  one  of  the  enemy  lay  on  the  ground,  though 
scores  of  wounded  men  were  clinging  weakly  to 
the  saddles  of  their  more  fortunate  comrades. 

"Say,  lieutenant,"  commented  Marshall,  as 
he  drove  home  the  ramrod  in  his  rifle,  "did  ye 


336  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

notice  that?  Jest  before  the  order  came  to  fire, 
every  one  of  them  fellahs,  when  they  saw  our 
guns  go  up,  squeezed  down  flat  behind  their 
hosses'  necks.  Jehosophat,  but  this  is  the  ding- 
dest  battle, —  nuthin'  to  shoot  at  but  hosses." 

The  Californians  were  retreating,  but  not  in 
haste.  Slowly,  beyond  rifle  range,  they  were 
reforming  their  fronts.  But  one  lone  horseman 
lingered  near  the  American  line,  walking  his 
horse  slowly  away,  two  wounded  men  clinging  to 
his  stirrups. 

' ' Shame !  Shame ! "  shouted  Marshall.  ' '  That's 
what  I  call  a  dirty  trick."  His  remarks  were 
addressed  to  one  of  the  sailors,  who  had  covered 
with  his  musket  the  retreating  figure  of  Don  Jos6 
Antonio  Arillo.  Others  of  the  frontiersmen  echoed 
Marshall's  protest,  and  the  sailor,  abashed,  low 
ered  his  weapon. 

The  waiting  vaqueros  had  galloped  up  with  the 
extra  mounts;  the  Californians  of  both  wings  had 
again  formed  in  two  squadrons.  Again  their 
bugles  sounded  the  charge. 

Back  they  came  with  lances  lowered,  the  plain 
thundering  under  their  galloping  steeds.  Mid 
way  in  their  mad  career  they  fired  a  volley  from 
their  escopetas.  As  Carroll  gave  the  order  to 
fire,  he  saw  Captain  Gillie  reel  backward,  his  hand 
to  his  face. 

Again  the  volley  roared   from   the  American 


LAST  STAND  OF  THE  CABALLERO    337 

ranks,  and  the  smoke  hid  the  rushing  line  of  horse 
men.  While  it  hung  idly  in  the  air,  the  square, 
now  a  triple  line  of  glistening  bayonets,  waited 
to  impale  the  oncoming  foe.  But  through  the 
smoky  wall  came  no  threatening  lance  points,  no 
looming  forms  of  men  and  horses,  but  shouts  of 
dismay  and  cries  of  pain  and  anguish.  The 
Californian  charge  had  again  been  halted  midway 
by  the  withering  fire  from  the  American  ranks. 

The  lieutenant  rushed  to  Captain  Gillie's 
assistance.  He  was  leaning  against  a  cart,  his 
face  white  and  dazed  and  his  forehead  bleeding. 
Quickly  Carroll  wiped  the  blood  from  the  wound, 
and  to  his  amazement  and  relief  noted  that  it  was 
nothing  more  than  a  severe  bruise. 

"A  spent  ball,  captain — nothing  worse,"  he 
commented.  Yet  the  shock  had  knocked  Gillie 
almost  senseless. 

The  front  of  the  enemy's  line  was  a  tangle  of 
wounded  men  and  plunging,  rearing  horses.  The 
latter,  their  chests  torn  by  musket  balls,  were 
screaming  in  agony.  The  ground  round  about 
was  dotted  with  figures,  crawling  painfully  away 
from  the  American  line.  Riderless  horses  were 
everywhere. 

"Lord,  look  at  the  empty  saddles!"  shouted  a 
marine,  exultantly. 

"Look  a  little  closer,  boy,"  commented  Mar 
shall,  "an'  ye '11  see  a  heel  stickin'  over  the  top  of 


338  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

the  saddle  and  a  fist  hangin'  to  the  pommel. 
Them  greasers,"  he  added,  "are  the  best  hossmen 
in  the  hull  darn  world.  There's  a  hundred  or 
two  of  them  out  there,  hangin'  by  their  eyelashes 
an'  the  skin  of  their  teeth  to  the  t'  other  side  of 
their  beasts." 

"Bring  the  guns  into  action,"  shouted  Com 
modore  Stockton. 

The  six  guns  which  had  been  held  in  readiness 
were  turned  toward  the  enemy. 

Again  the  Californians  were  advancing.  With 
a  long-drawn  yell  that  had  in  it  a  note  of  despair, 
the  cavalry  for  the  third  time  swooped  on  the 
square  from  both  sides.  Hardly  twenty  yards 
away  were  they  when  the  muskets  again  thundered 
smoke  and  flame,  and  while  the  echoes  of  the 
volley  were  still  ringing  in  the  ear,  the  cannon 
poured  its  deadly  fire  into  the  wavering  ranks. 

John  Carroll  waited  with  agonized  heart.  At 
the  very  moment  he  had  given  the  order  to  fire, 
he  had  recognized  Don  Jos6  Antonio  in  the  front 
rank  of  the  charge.  Through  the  gray  reek  in 
front  of  him  he  saw  a  stumbling  horse,  a  wavering 
lance  point,  then  a  dismounted,  tottering  man. 
Quickly  a  pistol  beside  him  spoke,  and  the  Cali- 
fornian  threw  up  his  hands  and  reeled  backward. 
Carroll's  heart  sickened. 

Disregarding  the  warning  cries  of  his  men,  he 
broke  through  the  ranks  and  rushed  toward  the 


LAST  STAND  OF  THE  CABALLERO    339 

corpse.  It  was  the  young  officer  who  had  escorted 
him  to  the  lonely  adobe  the  night  of  his  escape 
from  the  pueblo. 

On  the  plain  horses  lay  dead  in  rows  where  they 
had  fallen  before  the  withering  volleys  from  the 
square.  Though  scores  of  the  enemy  were 
wounded,  many  seriously,  by  the  flying  buckshot 
and  bullets,  yet  but  one  lay  dead.  Only  the 
matchless  horsemanship  and  protective  tactics  of 
the  Californians  had  saved  them  from  wholesale 
slaughter.  With  half  of  their  force  unmounted, 
their  powder  exhausted,  their  cannon  and  esco- 
petas  useless,  to  attempt  another  charge  would 
have  been  sheer  madness. 

The  test  had  been  conclusive.  Against  a  well- 
armed,  well-drilled,  well-equipped  square  of  in 
fantry,  three  deep,  no  cavalry,  however  fiery  and 
chivalrous,  could  successfully  contend.  Among 
the  Americans  four  had  lost  their  lives,  while 
seven  lay  dying  on  the  ox  carts. 

As  John  Carroll  turned  his  glass  on  the  Cali- 
fornian  column,  now  slowly  disappearing  toward 
the  hills,  his  heart  throbbed  with  thankfulness. 
He  could  distinguish,  riding  in  the  rear,  the 
figure  of  Arillo,  his  princely  head  bowed  1ow  in 
deep  dejection. 

Between  the  victorious  Americans  and  the 
rebellious  city  there  was  not  an  armed  man. 
The  bugle  sang  the  order  to  march. 


340  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

The  pueblo  of  Our  Lady,  Queen  of  the  Angels, 
and  all  therein,  lay  at  the  mercy  of  Commodore 
Stockton. 

The  Sons  of  Ancient  Spain  had  made  their  last 
stand. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

"SHE  SHALL  PRAY  FOR  YOUR  DEATH" 

the  wan-eyed  girl  at  the  lattice  comes  the 
shrill  scream  of  the  fife,  the  throb  of  the  drum, 
the  measured  tread  of  marching  men.  Far  down 
the  street,  in  the  gray  of  the  evening,  a  gleam  of 
blue,  a  flicker  of  red,  and  the  rising  murmur  of 
many  voices;  the  pueblo  is  again  in  the  hands 
of  the  hated  invader. 

Contemptuously  indifferent  to  the  curses  and 
scowls  of  the  stragglers  on  the  street,  unheeding 
the  yells  of  execration  from  the  handful  of  va- 
queros  on  the  hill  above  the  church,  slowly, 
steadily,  the  column  pushes  on  toward  the  plaza. 

Suddenly  a  shot  rings  out,  a  bullet  whizzes 
viciously  above  the  heads  of  the  Americans  — 
some  drunken  fool  on  the  hill  has  discharged  his 
piece. 

Short,  shouted  orders,  the  squads  of  fours 
merge  into  long  double  lines,  the  musket  barrels 
slope  upward.  A  stalwart  figure, —  oh,  so  familiar 
to  the  watcher  at  the  window, —  raises  his  saber 
and  the  plaza  shivers  with  the  shock  of  the 
volley.  On  the  hilltop  three  tumble  sprawling 
from  their  horses;  the  others  scamper  madly  away. 

Past  her  window  in  the  gathering  dusk,  like 


342  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

some  mad  phantasmagoria,  sweep  the  serried 
ranks,  among  them  John  Carroll,  his  naked 
weapon  still  in  his  hand,  his  face  thin  and  haggard, 
his  eyes  set  straight  ahead.  With  a  choking  sob 
the  girl  turns  away. 

To  Loreto  Arillo,  her  lover  has  come  again — 
come  with  fire  and  sword,  his  hands  red  with  the 
blood  of  her  people. 

In  the  home  of  Dona  Chonita,  now  the  head 
quarters  of  the  American  officers,  John  Carroll 
stood  before  a  table  where  sat  Commodore  Stock 
ton  and  General  Kearney.  The  commodore  had 
sent  for  him. 

"Lieutenant  Carroll,"  he  began,  "Captain 
Gillie  tells  me  that  you  know  the  country  well 
about  here — the  country  to  the  north." 

"I  rode  over  it  many  times  last  summer — sev 
eral  times  as  far  as  the  foothills,"  replied  Carroll. 

"Flores,"  Stockton  continued,  "is  probably 
hurrying  toward  the  mountains,  though  it  is 
possible  that  he  may  attempt  to  escape  to  Mexico 
through  Sonora.  Colonel  Fremont  is  somewhere 
north  of  the  pueblo.  By  this  time  he  must  have 
received  the  dispatch  sent  to  him  two  weeks  ago 
by  Captain  Henseley.  He  will  be  on  the  lookout 
for  Flores." 

The  commodore  ran  his  finger  over  a  map  on  the 
table ;  then  after  a  moment's  thought  he  continued : 


SHE  SHALL  PRAY  FOR  YOUR  DEATH  343 

"Fremont  must  now  be  well  past  the  Verdugo 
Hills.  He  will  probably  pass  between  them  and 
the  mountains,  hoping  to  cut  off  the  enemy's 
retreat. 

"For  the  deluded  rank  and  file  of  the  Cali- 
fornians,"  Stockton  went  on,  fixing  his  large,  bold 
eyes  on  the  lieutenant's  troubled  face,  "I  have 
much  sympathy  and  respect,  but  not  for  their 
leaders,  Arillo,  Flores,  Pico,  Alvaro,  Garfias,  and 
De  la  Guerra.  For  breaking  their  paroles  they 
deserve  a  drumhead  court-marital.  They  are  well 
aware  of  this,  and  may  possibly  take  to  the 
mountains  and  inaugurate  guerrilla  warfare.  But 
there  is  a  possibility  that  they  may  meet  with 
Fremont  and  surrender  to  him.  I  wish  the 
colonel  to  know  that  these  six  men  are  not  to  be 
included  in  the  terms  of  capitulation.  I  am  not 
doing  them  any  injustice.  On  this  matter  I 
have  had  private  and  reliable  information  that  it 
was  they  and  they  alone  who  are  responsible  for 
the  revolt  and  the  bloodshed  at  Dominguez  and 
San  Pascual." 

The  commodore  was  speaking  the  truth.  His 
secret  informant  was  none  other  than  Hugo 
Vanuela,  whose  communications  had  strengthened 
his  determination  to  wreak  upon  the  Dons  the 
fullest  vengeance  of  military  law. 

' '  I  think  it  well  that  you  should  know  the  intent 
and  purposes  of  these  dispatches  which  you  are 


344  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

to  carry  to  Colonel  Fremont,"  he  explained,  as  he 
handed  him  tne  papers. 

"Ride  well  to  the  east  of  the  Verdugo  Hills, 
lieutenant,"  Stockton  repeated.  "Keep  a  sharp 
lookout  for  the  enemy,  and  lose  no  time.  Within 
an  hour  you  must  be  on  your  way.  I  wish 
my  instructions  to  reach  Fremont  before  he  grants 
any  concessions  to  the  men  I  have  mentioned. 
He  may  do  so  innocently  unless  warned  in  time. 
Good  luck  go  with  you,"  he  added,  as  he  shook 
Carroll's  hand. 

Swinging  himself  into  the  saddle  from  the 
veranda,  the  lieutenant  trotted  out  into  the  plaza. 
Torturing  memories  wrung  him  as  he  walked  his 
horse  slowly  through  the  darkness  toward  the 
Arillo  home.  Bitter-sweet,  the  pictures  of  the 
past  marshaled  themselves  before  him  in  swift 
array, —  the  night  (it  seemed  years  ago)  that  on 
this  very  spot  he  had  felt  the  soft  form  of  Loreto 
Arillo  clinging  to  him — had  seen  the  light  in  her 
eyes  that  had  sent  the  blood  tingling  through  his 
veins.  And  now  in  the  few  moments  left  to  him 
he  was  going  to  her.  Come  what  might,  whether 
he  was  to  be  met  with  contemptuous  scorn  or 
forgiving  tenderness,  once  more,  possibly  for  the 
last  time,  he  would  look  into  those  glorious  eyes, 
whatever  of  sorrow  or  grief  or  pain  the  future 
might  bring. 

A  movement  in  the  spot  of  denser  black  under 


SHE  SHALL  PRAY  FOR  YOUR  DEATH  345 

the  veranda,  a  patter  of  feet,  the  swish  of  a 
woman's  garment,  and  he  felt  hands  clinging  to 
his  stirrup  leather. 

"Juan,"  came  a  whisper  through  the  darkness. 

He  was  looking  down  into  the  eyes  of  Loreto 
Arillo,  upraised  to  meet  his. 

Forgotten  the  dispatches,  forgotten  the  impera 
tive  necessity  of  haste,  forgotten  everything  save 
that  here,  within  reach  of  his  arms,  was  the 
woman  he  loved.  He  leaped  from  his  horse  and 
gathered  her  to  him,  kissing  her  rapturously  on 
lips  and  hair.  From  her  came  neither  response 
nor  protest  as  she  leaned  heavily  against  him. 

"Mi  querida,  I  came  as  quickly  as  I  could  and — 
I  must  go  in  a  few  moments.  I  carry  papers" — 
he  hesitated  for  a  moment — "to  the  north." 

The  girl  started,  and  drew  away  from  him. 

"Oh,  thou — thou — thou — "  she  gasped  as 
with  straightened  arm  she  held  him  at  a  distance. 
"Thou  ridest  to  Fremont  with  papers  from 
Stockton — the  cruel  Stockton — to  warn  Fremont 
to  show  no  mercy.  Mercy  of  God,  my  Juan,  can 
it  be  so?" 

In  his  silence  she  saw  the  confirmation  of  her 
fears. 

For  that  afternoon,  with  the  roar  of  the  cannon 
on  the  mesa  still  ringing  in  her  ears,  she  had  heard 
one  of  the  oldest  men  of  the  pueblo  comforting 
her  mother  with  the  assurance  that  two  possible 


346  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

avenues  of  escape  lay  open  to  her  father  and  his 
friends.  They  might  secure  favorable  terms  of 
capitulation  from  Fremont,  now  advancing  south 
ward,  or  they  might  escape  to  Mexico.  But  now 
the  last  faint  hope  was  to  be  destroyed.  Warned 
of  Stockton's  attitude  toward  the  Dons,  Fremont 
could  show  no  mercy,  and  with  his  well-equipped 
cavalry  he  would  swoop  down  upon  them  as  an 
eagle  strikes  its  defenseless  prey. 

"Holy  Mother,"  she  moaned  as  her  head 
dropped  on  his  shoulder,  "thou  art  to  be  my 
father's  messenger  of  death!" 

The  tortured,  suffering  man  was  silent.  Raising 
her  head,  the  girl  drew  quietly  away  from  him. 

"Come  within  the  house."  Her  tone  was  calm 
and  deliberate.  "It  is  not  fitting  that  we  should 
stand  without  by  the  veranda,  even  if  it  be  dark. 
Come,  Juan — for  but  a  moment.  It  may  be  the 
last  time  for  us,"  she  added  meaningly. 

As  he  entered  the  long,  low  living  room  he  noted 
Senora  Arillo  kneeling  at  a  table,  her  head  on  her 
arms,  absorbed  in  silent  grief.  She  had  been 
praying ;  her  beads  were  still  clasped  in  her  hands, 
hands  on  which  the  teardrops  glistened  in  the 
candle  light.  At  their  entrance  she  raised  her 
head  and  stared  at  them  half  stupidly,  without 
word  of  welcome. 

But  Loreto  had  no  thought  for  her  mother. 
Passing  her  fingers  deftly  over  the  front  of  Carroll's 


SHE  SHALL  PRAY  FOR  YOUR  DEATH  347 

jacket,  she  felt  within  the  crunch  of  papers.  Then, 
desperation  showing  in  her  face  and  eyes,  she  threw 
herself  upon  him  and  pressed  her  ripe  red  lips  to 
his  passionately. 

"Juan,  Juan,  thou  lovest  me — is  it  not  so?" 

"God  knows  I  do,  Loreto." 

"To-night,  then,  thou  wilt  prove  it  to  me." 

There  was  eager  triumph  in  her  voice.  Her 
silken  cheek  lay  against  his ;  her  breath  was  hot  on 
his  neck.  Against  his  breast  he  could  feel  the 
rounded  outlines  of  her  bosom. 

"If  thou  lovest  me — then  give  me  the  papers. 
Give  them  to  me.  But  little  hope  is  there  from 
Fremont.  He  is  cruel ;  by  him  were  the  Berryessa 
boys  and  their  uncle  shot  to  death,  and  Don  Jesus 
Pico  at  San  Luis  Obispo,  yet  what  little  hope 
there  may  be  the  coming  of  thy  papers  will  kill. 
Oh,  Juan,  Juan,  give  me  the  papers!" 

Her  hands  were  fumbling  at  the  buttons  of  his 
jacket. 

The  man  groaned. 

"I  cannot,  Loreto,  -I  cannot.  Little  thou 
knowest  what  thou  asketh.  I  cannot.  God  help 
me — God  help  us  both,"  he  moaned,  as  he  grasped 
the  hands  that  were  now  reaching  for  the  dispatches. 

Sefiora  Arillo,  still  on  her  knees,  was  staring  at 
them  with  pale  face  and  tortured  eyes.  In  her 
very  presence  her  daughter  was  shattering  every 
tradition  of  maidenly  modesty,  clinging  to  a 


348  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

man  with  lithe  encircling  arms  and  burning  lips — 
lips  that  were  raining  kisses  on  his  set,  agonized 
face.  The  mother's  countenance  showed  her 
suffering,  but  she  was  silent.  The  life  of  Don 
Antonio  was  at  stake.  Loreto  was  bartering  her 
caresses  for  her  father's  life,  as  a  courtesan  sells 
herself  for  gold. 

Again  the  girl  entwined  him  in  hsr  arms,  her 
cheek  against  his,  her  tears  dampening  his  face 
and  brow. 

4 '  Give  them  to  me !  Think,  Juan,  five  hours' — 
three  hours' — perhaps  one  hour's  delay  means 
my  father's  life.  Given  time,  he  may  escape  to 
Mexico.  Thou  canst  say  thou  lost  the  papers — 
dropped  them  on  the  way.  Give  them  to  me!" 
she  pleaded. 

"No  harm  will  come  to  thee.  'Twould  not 
be  strange  to  lose  the  papers.  Give  them  to  me," 
she  panted,  "and  I  am  thine — when  and  how 
thou  wilt — here  and  now  if  thou  wish  it.  In  one 
moment  we  can  bring  Father  Estenaga  from  the 
Plaza  Church." 

No  words  from  John  Carroll's  quivering  lips. 
Within  his  soul  a  battle  raged,  such  as  seldom 
comes  to  any  man — a  battle  such  as  leaves 
marks  of  age  on  cheek  and  brow. 

"If  thou  wilt  not  give  them  to  me,  promise 
me,"  she  pleaded,  "oh,  promise  me,  Juan,  that 
thou  wilt  lose  them,  or  that  thou  wilt  lose  thy  way 


SHE  SHALL  PRAY  FOR  YOUR  DEATH  349 

till  sunrise,  among  the  hills.  Ah!"  She  fancied 
she  saw  in  his  face  signs  of  relenting.  "Thou 
canst  do  that  at  least,  Juan;  promise,  for  I  know 
that  thou  lovest  me." 

Two  big  tears  were  slowly  stealing  down 
Carroll's  cheeks,  but  his  face  was  set  and  his  jaw 
firm.  Not  for  nothing  had  John  Carroll  come 
of  a  race  of  soldiers.  The  battle  was  over;  the 
soldier  had  conquered  the  lover.  Gently  he 
removed  the  girl's  clinging  arms  from  about  his 
neck,  and  held  her  wrists  as  he  spoke. 

"Heaven  have  mercy  on  us,  Loreto,  I — I — I 
cannot.  I  must  do  my  duty,  come  what  may.  I 
must  go.  This — this  is  beyond  my  strength. 
I  cannot  be  counted  a  traitor  to  my  country 
and  to  my  duty.  No  Carroll  ever  failed  in  the 
face  of  a  command.  Kiss  me  once,  Loreto, — for 
the  last  time." 

Her  moist  lustrous  eyes  gazed  into  his  for  a 
space.  In  them  she  saw  no  hope.  The  sacrifice 
of  her  maidenly  modesty,  her  womanly  reserve, 
had  been  in  vain.  Over  her  face  flooded  a  wave 
of  angry  red.  Injured  pride  stung  through  the 
deadening  despair  of  the  moment. 

"Go!"  She  motioned  toward  the  door.  "My 
father's  blood  will  redden  your  hands.  Go,  and 
leave  me  to  pray  on  bended  knees  for  your  death. 
Go,  that  I  may  ask  the  Virgin  to  grant  that  you 
may  never  reach  Fremont." 

23 


350  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

His  shoulders  drooped  as  if  laden  with  a  sudden 
weight.  Blindly  he  groped  to  the  door  and 
mounted  his  horse.  His  heart  aching,  his  head 
whirling,  he  spurred  his  mount  into  a  wild  gallop 
around  the  corner  and  into  one  of  the  side  streets 
leading  north  out  of  the  plaza.  Ever  before  him 
rose  the  tear-stained  face  of  Loreto,  and  the 
bitterness  of  her  parting  words.  Now,  even 
now,  she  was  praying,  praying  that — 

Like  a  blow,  the  words  of  the  Indian  woman 
came  to  him,  palpitating  through  his  mind  with 
cruel  reiteration:  "She  who  loves  you  shall  pray 
for  your  death — shall  pray  for  your  death — 
shall  pray  for  your  death."  His  horse's  feet 
seemed  to  patter  the  words  as  he  swung  on. 

Again  their  meaning  changed  and  their  regular 
thud  sang:  "Blood  shall  smear  your  path — smear 
your  path — smear  your  path." 

Furiously  he  spurred  his  horse,  dashing  through 
the  stream  without  pause,  the  flying  water  min 
gling  unnoticed  with  the  perspiration  on  his  face. 
Over  the  rise  in  the  ground  he  galloped  and  wound 
through  the  same  hollow,  where,  sick  and  dizzy, 
one  August  day  six  months  before  he  had  gazed 
into  the  muzzles  of  the  executioners'  menacing 
guns. 

"God,"  he  groaned,  "why  didn't  I  die  then? 
I  should  have  been  spared  this." 

Around  him  he  felt,  drawing  closer,  nearer,  and 


SHE  SHALL  PRAY  FOR  YOUR  DEATH  351 

tighter,  the  meshes  of  the  unpitying,  encircling 
fate,  foretold  by  the  blind  Indian  hag.  In  the 
starry  sky  above,  in  the  dark  earth  below,  in  his 
own  soul,  nowhere  was  there  help,  hope,  or  mercy. 
Over  him  surged  a  great  wave  of  bitterness — an 
ocean  of  self-pity  and  despair. 

Suddenly  there  fell  upon  him  a  calm — a  calm  so 
strange  that  it  seemed  almost  like  a  relief.  He 
sighed  and  wondered.  Though  he  knew  it  not, 
it  was  the  calm  of  utterly  exhausted  emotion. 
Dimly  he  felt  that  he  could  suffer  no  more,  that 
the  limit  had  been  reached.  Truly  it  mattered 
little  what  happened  now.  Almost  he  felt  him 
self  wishing  that  Loreto's  prayer  would  be  granted, 
that  a  flying  bullet  or  a  kindly  lance  point  would 
end  it  all.  He  was  ready. 

He  reined  his  horse  suddenly.  Was  that  the 
soft  scuffle  of  hoofs  in  the  rear  ?  Cantering  behind 
a  rise,  he  waited.  Surely  that  dark  shadow 
moving  on  the  far  side  of  the  arroyo  was  a  horse 
man!  He  drew  his  pistol  from  his  belt  and 
peered  again  across  the  depression.  But  no  dark 
form  emerged  from  the  bushes;  all  was  silence. 
Then  he  smiled  cheerfully.  It  was  Marshall, 
he  concluded,  attired  in  his  strange  disguise, 
following  him  as  bodyguard.  Still  somewhat 
puzzled,  for  he  could  see  no  reason  for  the  frontiers 
man's  secretive  tactics,  he  resumed  his  way,  now 
in  the  arroyo,  over  its  white  sands,  now  on  the 


352  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

brink,  ever  peering  watchfully  into  the  scattered 
shrubbery  on  its  level  floor. 

He  was  now  six  or  seven  miles  from  the  pueblo. 
Far  away  to  the  north  loomed  the  mountain  range, 
a  heaving  swell  of  blackness  against  the  starlit  sky. 
To  the  right,  across  the  arroyo,  rose  the  last  of  a 
succession  of  low  rolling  hills,  that  ran  northeast 
from  the  city.  Beyond  that  to  the  mountains, 
five  miles  away,  there  was  no  eminence  from 
which  he  could  look  for  the  warning  camp  fires 
of  Fremont.  Carefully  he  climbed  the  hill,  and 
as  his  horse  drew  out  on  the  rounded  top,  free  from 
oaks,  he  started,  and  muttered  in  surprise: 

"Fremont's  camp." 

He  was  the  soldier  again,  alert  and  attentive. 
Below  him,  bathed  in  the  mellow  moonlight,  lay 
the  rounded,  billowing  tops  of  the  oaks,  with  here 
and  there  an  open  park.  A  half-mile  or  so  away, 
to  the  northeast,  around  the  foot  of  a  low  conical 
hill,  lay  a  crescent-shaped  line  of  glittering  specks 
of  flame. 

His  brow  knit  in  perplexity.  Was  it  Fremont 
or  Flores,  or  both?  Had  the  two  armies  met 
already?  Had  there  been  a  battle,  or  a  peaceful 
surrender?  He  did  not  know. 

If  the  fires  he  saw  flickering  like  stars  against 
the  blackness  of  the  distant  hill  were  those  of  the 
beaten  Californian  army,  he  was  truly  in  a 
dangerous  position,  for  he  could  not  be  far  from 


SHE  SHALL  PRAY  FOR  YOUR  DEATH  353 

their  outposts.  At  any  moment  he  was  likely  to 
encounter  one  of  their  pickets. 

And  yet  it  might  be  Fremont.  If  it  were,  and 
he  were  to  ride  still  farther  west  in  search  of  the 
Pathfinder,  it  would  mean  a  loss  of  hours  before 
the  dispatches  were  delivered.  Stockton  had 
urged  haste.  The  words  of  Loreto  came  to  him: 
"Lose  thy  way  till  sunrise,"  and  with  them  the 
temptation  to  ride  westward.  No  blame  could  be 
attached  to  him;  it  would  be  but  an  error  of 
judgment.  But  the  blood  of  his  father  within  him 
was  uppermost,  and  he  put  the  disloyal  thought 
sternly  away.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but 
reconnoiter. 

Tying  his  horse  to  an  oak,  for  he  felt  that 
he  could  more  easily  escape  detection  on  foot,  he 
cautiously  descended  the  hill,  gliding  noiselessly 
from  tree  to  tree  till  he  reached  the  edge  of  the 
arroyo.  Silently  creeping  from  one  open  spot  to 
another,  along  the  winding  rim  of  the  water 
course,  he  could  hear  below  him  the  gurgle  of 
running  water  and  the  drowsy  chirps  of  birds 
disturbed  from  their  slumbers  in  the  trees  about. 

Smooth  and  level  was  the  road  by  the  arroyo's 
brink,  dwindling  at  times  to  a  mere  bridle  path, 
bordered  at  his  left  by  the  dark  tops  of  the  syca 
mores,  whose  roots  were  set  in  the  arroyo  bottom. 
His  plans  were  made.  Could  he  approach  near 
enough  to  the  picket  line,  a  few  moments'  scrutiny 


354  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

would  tell  whether  the  camp  was  American  or 
Calif ornian.  He  would  follow  the  rim  of  the 
arroyo  to  the  north  toward  the  mountains  until 
due  west  of  the  camp,  and  then  creep  carefully 
over  the  rise  that  loomed  now  between  him  and 
the  camp  fires.  Possibly  he  could  creep  near 
enough  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  men  moving 
about  the  fires  or  to  overhear  a  few  spoken  words. 

A  mile  of  stealthy  advance;  the  road  swung 
away  from  the  bank;  the  trees  faded  away  on  all 
sides,  leaving  an  open  moonlit  space,  where  stood 
alone  a  giant  oak,  wide  branched  and  stately. 
Suddenly  Carroll  recognized  the  tree.  He  had 
ridden  past  it  one  day  with  Don  Augustin  Alvaro. 
Over  the  rise  to  the  east  where  shone  the  camp 
fires  was  the  ranch  house  of  the  San  Pasqual,  the 
country  home  of  Don  Jos6  Antonio  Arillo. 

As  he  stepped  into  the  shadow  of  the  oak  his 
waiting  ear  detected  the  sound  of  approaching 
footsteps.  He  glanced  upward.  Above  him 
stretched  a  long,  level  limb  of  the  tree.  Bound 
ing  from  the  earth,  he  grasped  it  with  both  hands, 
and  drew  himself  up.  In  a  moment  he  was  lying 
flat  on  the  bough,  unseen  in  the  obscurity,  motion 
less,  watchful. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

BY   THE   GIANT   OAK 

OULLENLY  and  doggedly  the  beaten  Cali- 
^  fornian  army  drew  slowly  to  the  northeast 
from  the  battlefield  of  the  mesa. 

From  the  vanguard,  where  rode  Flores,  Arillo, 
and  the  other  officers,  to  the  groaning  wounded 
in  the  last  of  the  lumbering  carretas,  was  the 
speechless  gloom  of  utter  despair.  Through  the 
green,  wide-flung  vales,  around  the  low,  rolling 
hills  to  the  northeast,  the  cavalry  line  wound 
slowly  and  painfully.  Ever,  during  the  short 
winter  evening,  their  anxious  eyes  turned  to  the 
southward,  where  the  pickets  of  their  own  rear 
guard  could  be  seen  on  the  swelling  hilltops 
watchfully  alert  for  a  glimpse  of  the  enemy. 
But  from  the  solitary  horseman  on  the  eminences 
came  no  fluttering  signal,  no  warning  pistol  flash 
that  told  of  pursuit. 

The  westering  sun  was  low  in  the  sky  before  the 
San  Pasqual  Rancho  was  reached.  There,  on  the 
wide  open  space  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  the  order 
was  given  to  make  camp.  Food  was  not  lacking, 
for  Arillo,  with  characteristic  forethought  for 
the  welfare  of  the  men,  even  while  the  last  wild 
charge  of  the  Californian  horse  was  rolling  back 
in  confusion,  had  hastily  dispatched  galloping 

355 


356  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

couriers  to  the  rancho  with  orders  to  prepare  for 
the  coming  of  the  army.  It  was  his  own  cattle 
that  were  driven  into  camp,  butchered  on  the  spot, 
and  roasted  at  the  fires  that  in  the  gathering  dusk 
soon  blazed  around  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

In  the  adobe  built  by  Leo  the  Stranger  the 
officers  made  their  headquarters.  Early  after 
their  arrival  they  held  a  council  of  war.  All  were 
present  except  Hugo  Vanuela.  He  had  been 
degraded  to  the  ranks  as  punishment  for  his 
failure  to  advance  at  the  critical  moment  during 
the  fight  at  the  river,  a  punishment  which  he 
received  with  a  contemptuous,  indifferent  shrug. 

Their  councils  were  divided;  they  could  reach 
no  conclusion.  Commandant  Flores  and  Garfias 
urged  that  the  Dons  disband  the  army  and  escape 
to  Mexico  by  the  way  of  the  San  Gorgonio  Pass. 
With  characteristic  optimism,  Pico  and  De  la 
Guerra,  believing  that  in  spite  of  his  threats  the 
American  commander,  now  that  he  had  attained 
his  end,  the  capture  of  the  pueblo,  might  yet  prove 
magnanimous,  were  in  favor  of  again  opening 
negotiations  with  Stockton.  Rico  and  Cota 
advised  retreat  to  the  mountains,  where  a  guerrilla 
warfare  could  be  carried  on  interminably. 

"Wilt  ride  with  us  to  Sonora,  Don  Jos6 
Antonio?"  said  Flores  to  Arillo,  who  had  taken  no 
part  in  the  discussions. 

"I  cannot,  I  will  not,  run  away.     Far  rather 


BY  THE  GIANT  OAK  357 

would  I  have  history  relate  that  Don  Jose  Antonio 
Arillo  died  even  on  the  scaffold  than  that  Don  Jose 
Antonio  Arillo  fled.  I  will  remain,  or  go  to  the 
mountains;  which,  I  have  not  decided." 

It  was  finally  determined  to  postpone  further 
discussion  till  the  morrow.  Worn  out  by  the 
stirring  events  of  the  day,  they  retired  to  their 
couches. 

Arillo,  to  whose  eyes  sleep  refused  to  come, 
mounted  his  horse  and  made  a  round  of  the  out 
posts  before  again  seeking  his  couch.  Over  the 
rolling  hills,  the  darkened  plain,  the  gently 
rounded  tops  of  the  oaks,  the  high-sailing  moon 
cast  its  softened  glow.  High  up  on  the  hill  above 
him  the  lone  figure  of  a  picket  was  silhouetted 
against  the  starlit  sky.  To  the  south  the  arroyo 
hill  rose,  a  swell  of  lusterless  blue-black,  to  meet 
the  spangled  glory  of  the  night.  Close  at  hand 
the  dewdrops  glistened  on  the  leaves  and  grass 
blades.  Around  him,  half  hidden  in  the  dense 
shadows  of  the  oaks,  lay  the  twisted  forms  of  his 
men.  Mingled  with  the  ceaseless  song  of  the 
spring  came  the  champing  of  the  tethered  horses 
farther  up  the  hill,  the  movement  of  a  restless 
sleeper,  a  few  muttered  words, —  the  many  indis 
tinct  sounds  of  the  slumbering  camp. 

The  Don,  his  inspection  of  the  outposts 
completed,  dismounted  and  threaded  his  way 
among  the  recumbent  figures  beneath  the  oaks. 


358  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Bending  over,  he  touched  a  sleeper  on  the  cheek, 
and  Manuel,  startled,  sat  up. 

"Come,  my  son,"  whispered  Arillo.  "I  would 
speak  with  thee." 

"Mount,"  commanded  the  father,  as  he 
motioned  to  his  horse  standing  in  the  open. 
Wonderingly  the  boy  obeyed. 

"Listen,  Manuel,  my  son."  There  was  a 
tremor  in  the  voice  of  the  Don.  "It  is  now  time 
for  thee  to  return  home.  Leave  thy  arms  here. 
Ride  quietly  into  the  pueblo.  Speak  to  no  one. 
Remain  within  the  house  for  many  days  with 
thy  mother  and  sister.  They  will  need  thee  far 
more  than  does  the  army. 

"Son,"  and  Arillo's  voice  was  now  husky  with 
emotion,  "it  may  be  we  shall  not  meet  again. 
If  the  worst  comes  to  me,  do  thou  try  to  bear  it 
like  a  man.  It  will  be  for  thee,  then,  to  uphold 
and  comfort  by  thy  strength  thy  mother  and 
sister.  Remember,  they  will  look  to  thee. 

"Whatever  comes  to  pass,  Manuel,  remember 
it  is  the  will  of  God.  In  the  days  to  come,  let 
there  be  no  bitterness  in  thy  heart  toward  the 
Americans.  It  will  be  but  the  way  of  war.  Do 
thou  try  to  learn  their  tongue  and  their  ways. 
Guard  well  thy  mother  and  sister.  Remember 
what  I  now  say  to  thee — what  my  father,  dying, 
said  to  me, — 'An  Arillo  can  never  be  aught  but 
a  Christian  and  a  gentleman.' 


BY  THE  GIANT  OAK  359 

"May  the  saints  preserve  thee,  my  son.  Go — 
go  by  the  south ;  the  pickets  there  have  orders  to 
let  thee  pass." 

The  boy,  awed  by  the  solemnity  in  his  father's 
voice,  was  sobbing  with  bent  head.  Suddenly 
he  leaped  to  the  ground. 

"No,  no,  father;  I  will  not  go.  Let  me  die  with 
thee,"  he  implored,  as  he  clung  to  him  frantically. 

"No,  my  child;  it  must  not  be.  They  need 
thee.  Go,  my  son;  go,  I  command  thee." 

One  last  embrace,  and  the  boy,  still  sobbing, 
obeyed.  As  the  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofbeats  died 
away  in  the  distance  the  father  sank  to  the  grass, 
his  head  on  his  knees.  Over  him  surged  a  great 
wave  of  despair.  His  heart  ached  as  he  thought 
of  his  wife,  of  Loreto,  of  Jose,  whose  fate  no  one 
knew,  of  Manuel,  whom  he  had  seen  probably  for 
the  last  time,  and  the  inevitable  ignominy  of  the 
morrow.  From  the  adobe  came  the  low  moans  of 
the  wounded,  and  the  shrill  scream  of  a  dying  man. 

"This,"  he  bared  his  head  as  i£  in  the  presence 
of  death,  "this — is — the  end.  Oh,  God  above," 
he  moaned,  as  he  gazed  up  at  the  scintillating 
firmament,  "is  there  no  help?" 

But  the  stars  looked  down  on  the  broken 
hearted  man  with  their  cold,  steely  glitter,  as 
they  have  looked  down  at  the  agony  and  soul  grief 
of  countless  thousands  of  men  since  the  beginning 
of  time. 


360  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

The  sound  of  a  stealthy  footstep  caused  him  to 
turn  his  head.  In  the  dim  form  he  had  glimpsed 
melting  into  the  obscurity  of  the  underbrush  the 
Don  fancied  he  had  recognized  the  figure  of  Hugo 
Vanuela.  Arillo  knew  well  that  he  had  not  been 
one  of  the  evening's  detail  of  pickets.  That  the 
man  who  had  been  under  suspicion  since  his 
disobedience  at  the  river  should  be  prowling  about 
the  sleeping  camp  was  a  matter  for  instant  investi 
gation. 

Now  halting  in  the  shadows,  now  dodging  from 
tree  to  tree,  then  dashing  across  open,  moonlit 
spaces,  Arillo  followed  the  retreating  figure  for 
nearly  a  mile,  up  the  gentle  rise  to  the  west,  and 
down  the  long  slope  toward  the  arroyo. 

Close  was  the  fugitive  to  the  edge  of  the  chasm, 
when,  as  if  disdaining  further  concealment,  he 
halted  beneath  a  giant  oak  that  stood  alone  in  a 
circle  of  moonlight.  It  was  Hugo  Vanuela,  and 
as  he  faced  Arillo  he  drew  his  sword  with  a  fine 
air  of  bravado. 

"So-o-o,"  there  was  malignant  triumph  in  the 
long  drawn  vowel,  "it  is  the  Senor  Arillo.  I 
expected  you  to  follow.  You  were  very  prompt. 
I  thank  you,  senor." 

"Why  this  skulking  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
camp,  Senor  Vanuela?  Return  at  once  to  your 
company,"  ordered  Don  Jos6  Antonio. 

"I    am    not    a    member    of    your   command; 


BY  THE  GIANT  OAK  361 

neither  are  you  the  officer  of  the  day,"  retorted 
Vanuela  defiantly. 

"You  are  a  traitor,  Vanuela,  as  you  were  but 
yesterday  at  the  river.  This  is  more  than  mere 
desertion — it  means  treachery.  You  intend  to 
carry  to  the  enemy  news  of  our  whereabouts," 
answered  Arillo  hotly,  as  his  bared  blade  glistened 
in  the  moonlight. 

"Good,"  returned  Vanuela,  as  he  noted  the 
action.  "It  is  well,  Senor  Don  Jos6  Antonio 
Arillo,  that  we  fight  here,  with  the  land  of  the  San 
Pasqual  beneath  our  feet, — the  land  that  was  my 
father's,  is  now  yours,  and  shall  yet  be  mine.  It 
is  well  and  fitting  also  that  you  should  die  here." 

In  the  clear,  moonlit  stillness  the  musical  clang 
of  their  ringing  blades  came  to  Lieutenant  John 
Carroll  as  he  clung  enthralled  to  the  limb 
of  the  mighty  oak.  Now  on  the  dewlit  grass, 
now  gyrating  under  the  shadow  of  the  tree,  the 
men  fought,  Arillo  ever  on  the  offensive;  Vanuela 
retreating,  wheeling,  cautious  and  wary,  playing 
a  waiting  game.  As  they  swung  around  the  tree 
trunk  they  were  hidden  from  Carroll's  view  by  the 
intervening  branches.  When  they  again  emerged 
into  the  moonlight  he  saw  that  Arillo's  cheek  was 
laid  wide  open,  and  that  his  white  shirt  was 
streaked  with  blood.  Closer,  ever  nearer  to  his 
overhanging  bough  they  moved,  until  the  Ameri 
can  could  look  down  into  their  faces,  Arillo's  hard, 


362  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

set,  and  worried,  Vanuela's  twisted  in  sneering 
triumph.  Like  streaks  of  burnished  silver  their 
blades  scintillated  in  the  moonlight,  and  far  up  the 
hill  a  mocking  bird,  in  answer  to  the  rhythmic 
clang,  awoke  from  its  slumbers  and  poured  forth 
its  soul  in  song. 

Vanuela  was  a  magnificent  swordsman;  the 
agility  of  youth  and  his  sturdy  strength  were  in 
his  favor,  while  the  pace  he  was  now  setting  was 
a  killing  one  for  Arillo's  maturer  years.  Already 
Don  Jos£  Antonio  was  weakening;  the  silent 
watcher  in  the  tree  could  hear  his  hard-drawn 
breath. 

A  furious  clatter  of  steel,  and  Vanuela  gave  way 
before  the  Don's  desperate  attack.  But  only 
for  a  moment.  Hugo  grinned  as  he  felt  on  his 
blade  the  weakening  pressure  that  told  of  his 
antagonist's  relaxed  effort. 

A  few  seconds  of  further  play,  and  Carroll 
saw  the  sword  of  Don  Jose  Antonio  fly  through 
the  air  and  rebound  from  the  tree  trunk. 

Not  a  moment  did  Hugo  Vanuela  hesitate. 
With  incredible  quickness  he  unhooked  the  riata 
dangling  at  his  hip  and  cast  its  long  noose  over 
Arillo's  shoulders,  and  then,  loop  after  loop, 
bound  him  in  its  repeated  folds,  until  he  was 
helpless.  Panting  and  breathless  in  its  stiffening 
coils,  the  Don  tottered  to  the  ground. 

Vanuela    silently    drew    from    his    clothing    a 


BY  THE   GIANT  OAK  363 

tinder  box,  clicked  the  steel  and  flint,  and  calmly 
lit  a  cigar.  After  he  had  exhaled  a  mouthful  of 
smoke  he  seated  himself  on  a  stone,  facing  the 
fallen  man,  who  was  staring  at  him  with  wonder 
ing  eyes. 

' '  It  has  long  been  my  desire,  Don  Jos6  Antonio 
Arillo,  to  have  a  conversation,  a  very  private 
conversation,  with  you,  and  this  will  doubtless 
be  the  last  opportunity  that  will  be  offered  to 
me.  You,  Senor  Don  Jose"  Antonio,  are  one  of 
the  genie  de  razon"  he  went  on  in  a  malevolently 
caressing  voice.  "From  me  your  faces  were  al 
ways  turned  away,  and  the  doors  of  your  homes 
closed,  though  open  to  many  a  man  in  the  pueblo 
who  had  not  the  wherewithal  to  buy  a  second 
coat.  Always  have  you  and  yours  despised  me. 
You  and  your  friends,  you  killed  my  father  and 
took  my  father's  lands  that  by  right  should  now 
be  mine.  That  night  when  my  father  lay  dying 
at  San  Fernando  he  made  provision  for  the  future, 
Don  Jose  Antonio,  for  I  swore  to  him  that  once 
again  would  I  win  the  rancho  of  the  San  Pasqual, 
and  that  you  and  yours  should  suffer — should 
pay  in  blood  and  sorrow,  in  grief  and  tears.  I 
have  kept  the  oath;  so  shall  it  be.  For  I  shall 
see,  when  the  Americans  take  you  and  the  others 
of  the  genie  de  razon,  that  rich  blood  of  yours  flow 
freely  on  the  sand.  A  stone  wall — the  firing 
squad.  It  is  a  pretty  picture,  is  it  not,  Don  Jose 


364  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Antonio  Arillo?  Or  maybe — one  cannot  tell — 
the  Americans  have  some  strange  ways.  It  is 
said  they  like  the  rope.  Perhaps  it  will  be  that 
very  honorable  death  for  the  noblemen  of  the 
genie  de  razon." 

The  pride  of  Don  Jos6  Antonio  kept  him  silent. 
He  was  staring  at  Vanuela  scornfully.  Hugo 
watched  him  curiously,  showing  his  big  white 
teeth  in  a  satisfied  grin. 

"Pardon  me,  my  dear  senor,"  he  continued. 
"I  assure  you  I  am  telling  you  a  very  wicked 
untruth.  I  shall  not  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you  shot  or  hanged  by  the  Americans,  but  instead 
a  much  greater  one,  that  of  killing  you  myself 
in  a  few  minutes.  Oh,  yes;  it  is  true  you  might 
cry  out.  It  might  bring  some  one  from  the  camp, 
and  I  should  simply  have  to  kill  you  the  sooner." 

Above,  Carroll  clung  to  the  bough,  shocked, 
silent,  motionless.  But  along  the  limb  lay  his 
pistol,  primed  and  cocked,  its  sight  covering  the 
head  of  Hugo  Vanuela.  A  dozen  times  his 
finger  trembled  on  the  trigger,  but  he  hesitated. 
The  Californian  camp  was  less  than  a  mile  away, 
and  a  single  shot  would  mean  his  capture,  the 
loss  of  the  dispatches,  and  possible  execution  as 
a  spy.  With  thumping  heart  and  set  teeth,  he 
waited. 

"They  do  say,  senor,"  went  on  Hugo,  "that 
one  grows  wise,  very  wise,  when  close  to  death. 


BY   THE   GIANT  OAX  365 

Your  life,  and  the  lives  of  the  other  fools  yonder 
who  broke  their  paroles,  are  forfeit  by  the  laws 
of  war.  For  all  of  this  you  have  me,  Hugo 
Vanuela,  the  son  of  the  drunken  foreigner  and 
the  Indian  mother,  to  thank.  It  is  so  because  I 
made  it  come  so,  Don  Jose  Antonio." 

In  Arillo's  pale  face  there  was  a  look  of  utter 
bewilderment. 

"I  have  heard  my  father  say — before  you  and 
your  friends  killed  him — that  it  was  the  brain 
and  not  the  blood  that  made  the  man,  even  were 
the  blood  that  of  the  noble  gente  de  razon.  And 
now  the  victory  is  to  the  brain  of  the  despised 
half-breed,  Hugo  Vanuelo. 

"Listen,  Don  Jos6  Antonio  Arillo."  He  rose 
to  his  feet  and  looked  down  with  a  diabolical 
sneer  into  the  face  of  the  man  at  his  feet.  "I 
have  hated  you  always.  I  hated  you  when  my 
father  died,  and  before.  For  months  you  and 
your  friends  have  been  but  as  dough  in  my  hands. 
Like  sheep  have  I  led  you  to  your  doom.  It  is 
a  long  story,  but  you  shall  hear  it. 

"It  was  I — I,  and  the  Englishman  MacNamara, 
who  sent  the  boys  to  the  gate  the  night  Reyes  was 
killed.  I  told  the  fool  Gillie  that  it  was  you  and 
others  who  prompted  them  to  the  attack.  And 
it  is  myself  you  have  to  thank  for  the  indignity  of 
the  chains." 

"You — you — "  gasped  Arillo. 

24 


366  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"Myself,  none  other,  Don  Jose  Antonio.  The 
next  day,  along  with  the  dreamer  Palera  and 
the  Englishman  MacNamara,  we  gathered  them 
at  the  Paredon  Bluff.  It  was  I,  you  will  remember, 
who  brought  to  you  the  proclamation.  Madre 
de  Dios,  but  I  was  a  fine  patriot  in  those  days — all 
with  one  purpose,  my  dear  friend, — to  have  you 
break  your  parole.  Yes,  I,  Hugo  Vanuela,  the 
despised  half-breed,  did  it  with  the  help  of  the 
Englishman,  who  was  Don  Pablo  de  Almagro, 
the  Spaniard  from  Mexico,"  he  chuckled,  "he 
whom  you  found  dead  in  the  powder  house  at 
San  Gabriel.  It  was  true!  Alvaro  was  right! 
He  was  but  an  English  agent  who  had  planned  to 
give  California  to  the  English.  You  were  too 
late.  It  was  I  who  killed  him,  but  not  before 
much  gold,  much  English  gold,  had  passed  from 
his  hands  into  mine.  That  night  I  also  spoiled 
the  powder." 

"You  spoiled  the  powder?"  panted  Arillo. 

"None  other,  my  dear  Arillo.  That  is  not  all. 
Much  more  have  I  done.  It  was  I  who  sent  the 
note  to  Cota  that  prevented  the  signal  being 
given  to  Benito  Willard,  the  time  you  planned 
to  speak  with  Stockton.  It  was  at  my  suggestion 
that  Flores  sent  your  young  Jose  to  San  Luis 
Obispo  with  dispatches.  Fremont  caught  and 
hanged  him,  I  have  learned. 

' '  In  every  incident  of  the  last  six  months,  Don 


BY  THE   GIANT  OAK  367 

Jose  Antonio,  you  have  but  been  my  tool.  Yet, 
por  Dios,"  he  added  with  a  grin,  "you  were  not 
alone.  Not  only  you,  but  Gillie,  Flores,  Stockton, 
and  even  that  clever,  clever  man,  MacNamara. 

"And  there  is  yet  one  more  who  shall  do  my  bid 
ding,  even  as  these  have  done  it, — the  American 
colonel,  Fremont.  When  I  have  had  the  very 
great  pleasure  of  seeing  you  stiff  in  death,  I  shall 
ride  to  him  and  bring  him  here  to  capture  the 
other  fools  yonder. 

"What  think  you  now,  Don  Jose  Antonio,  of 
the  despised  half-breed  Hugo  Vanuela,  who — it 
is  sad  to  think  you  will  not  live  to  see  it — will 
have  high  place  and  honor  under  the  new  govern 
ment,  when  the  carcasses  of  the  genie  de  razon  are 
rotting  under  the  sod?" 

"You — you  devil,"  panted  Arillo  as  he  strug 
gled  hopelessly  with  his  bonds. 

Vanuela  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  grinned 
happily. 

"What  will  you  have,  senor?  Your  people 
always  have  said  my  father  was  a  devil.  How 
can  one  help  it  with  such  ancestry? 

"It  is  strange,  is  it  not,  Senor  Arillo,"  he  went 
on  as  he  drew  his  dagger  from  his  belt,  "how  a 
little  prick  of  a  piece  of  steel  can  end  a  man's 
hates  and  loves?  Ah,  yes,  it  is  a  mystery,  and 
one  that  you  will  understand  shortly.  You  will 
be  very,  very  wise,  my  friend,  a  few  minutes  from 


368  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

now.  I  have  told  you  all  these  things,  and  I  do 
not  fear  that  you  will  repeat  them,  for  a  dead  man 
cannot  speak.  But  one  favor  I  would  ask.  You 
may  see  my  father  over  there.  Will  you  tell  him 
for  me  that  I  have  kept  my  word,  that  the  debt 
has  been  paid?" 

He  stood  above  the  helpless  man,  toying  with 
his  dagger  as  if  loath  to  end  the  gloating  joy  of 
this  long-looked-for  moment. 

But  Don  Jos6  Antonio  was  silent.  His  eyes 
were  closed  and  his  lips  moving  faintly.  He  was 
praying.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  he  looked  up 
fearlessly  into  Vanuela's. 

"Pray  on — pray  on,"  sneered  Hugo.  "I  will 
wait.  Pray  to  your  angels  and  saints  to  save  you. 
Let  them  save  you,  and  I  will  believe  they  are 
more  powerful  than  Hugo  Vanuela. 

"When  you  are  dead,"  he  went  on,  "I  shall  ride 
at  once,  not  to  Stockton  but  to  Fremont,  who  is, 
one  of  my  Indian  scouts  tells  me,  but  twenty  miles 
to  the  west,  beyond  the  Cahuenga  Pass,  and  in  a 
few  hours  the  other  fools  over  yonder  shall  be 
prisoners  of  war." 

Dagger  in  hand,  he  stepped  toward  the  Don, 
"Take  this  thought  with  you  into  the  other  world 
that  after  you  are  dead  your  daughter  will  be 
mine.  I  may  marry  her — perhaps;  perhaps  not, 
if  it  does  not  suit  me.  I  shall  have  her,  anyway. 
Why  should  the  daughter  of  the  genie  de  razon 


BY  THE  GIANT  OAK  369 

fare  better  than  any  brown  Indian  girl  in  the  wil 
lows?" 

Hardly  had  the  words  left  his  lips  when  a  spurt 
of  red  fire  flashed  in  the  branches  of  the  oak, 
and  the  silent  night  crashed  with  the  echoes  of  a 
pistol  shot. 

Vanuela  reeled,  and  his  hand  went  feebly  to  his 
head.  But  in  a  moment  he  had  drawn  his  sword, 
and  crossed  blades  with  John  Carroll. 

"You  beast, — you — devil,"  hissed  the  Ameri 
can.  But  there  was  no  answer  from  Vanuela's 
trembling  lips.  He  was  still  shaky  from  the  shock 
of  the  bullet.  As  he  gave  ground  before  the 
lieutenant's  furious  onslaught,  the  blood  trickled 
down  his  brown  cheek  in  two  dark  streams. 

With  all  the  fierce  fury  of  a  frenzied  hate, 
Carroll  fought  on.  Twice  he  had  thought  to 
have  his  sword  in  Vanuela's  throat,  but  the  latter 
cleverly  eluded  him.  Again  he  pressed  him  close, 
confident  that  the  end  was  near,  when  to  their 
ears,  above  the  ringing  of  steel,  came  the  pound 
ing  of  hoofs  over  the  rise  to  the  east. 

The  Californian  had  been  driven  near  to  the 
edge  of  the  arroyo,  and  as  Carroll  relaxed  his 
efforts  he  made  an  agile  backward  leap,  and,  sword 
in  hand,  disappeared  in  the  crashing  underbrush. 
Carroll  was  alone. 

Nearer  and  nearer  thundered  the  pounding 
hoofs.  As  a  score  of  mounted  Calif ornians  dashed 


370  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

up  to  the  oak,  Carroll,  who  was  racing  down  the 
roadway,  darted  into  the  shrubbery. 

Under  the  tree  Don  Jos6  Antonio,  bound  fast 
in  the  winding  strands  of  the  riata,  lay  unconscious. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

AT  THE   DEVIL'S   ROCK 

CROUCHING  in  the  bushes,  hardly  twenty 
^-^  feet  away  from  the  roadway,  Lieutenant  Jack 
Carroll  listened  attentively  to  the  sounds  coming 
from  beneath  the  oak. 

A  cessation  of  hoofbeats,  wild  yells  of  rage, 
and  he  knew  that  friends  had  found  Don  Jose 
Antonio,  bound  and  bleeding.  The  murmur  of 
many  excited  voices  rising  in  a  babble  was  followed 
by  loudly  shouted  orders  to  pursue  the  assailant. 
Arillo  was  unconscious,  maybe  dead.  Horse 
men  were  galloping  north  and  south  along  the  rim 
of  the  arroyo.  The  man  hunt  was  on. 

Carroll  threaded  his  way  cautiously  through 
the  undergrowth  toward  the  brink  and  leaned 
far  out  over  the  edge,  staring  into  the  moonlit 
depth  for  the  glimpse  of  a  moving  figure.  With 
a  wild  scurry  of  sand  and  stone,  his  feet  unexpect 
edly  gave  way,  and  he  found  himself  sliding  to 
the  floor  of  the  arroyo,  twenty  feet  below. 

"There  he  is!  Hear  him!"  shouted  a  voice  in 
Spanish  from  the  bank  above.  The  hue  and  cry 
was  raised.  The  human  pack  was  on  his  trail. 

The  hunted  man  paused  for  a  moment.  Before 
him  lay  the  level  floor  of  the  arroyo,  down  its 
center  a  winding  ribbon  of  murmuring,  moonlit 

37i 


373  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

water.  To  reach  his  horse,  hidden  in  the  oaks 
on  the  side  of  the  arroyo  hill,  was  manifestly  im 
possible;  around  the  foot  of  the  eminence  he 
could  hear  the  searchers  calling  to  one  another. 
His  only  chance  was  to  run  farther  up  the  arroyo, 
find  a  place  of  concealment,  and  remain  hidden 
until  the  fury  of  the  chase  had  abated. 

Hurrying  along  the  soft  rim  of  yellow  sand  at 
the  water's  edge,  he  ran  on  noiselessly,  preserving 
his  strength  and  wind  for  the  final  effort  he 
felt  was  certain  to  come,  should  they  catch  sight 
of  him.  Past  him,  as  he  ran,  glided,  dreamlike, 
forms  of  dwarf  oak  and  scrubby  sycamore.  Ever 
he  looked  to  the  higher  giound  up  the  arroyo, 
where  the  banks  closed  in  canon-like  above  the 
little  stream,  and  a  deeper  blackness  told  of  tall 
evergreen  trees.  There,  in  darkness  and  silence, 
was  safety. 

Only  once,  as  he  heard  a  clatter  of  falling 
pebbles,  did  he  glance  back  in  time  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  dark  forms  of  mounted  men,  pick 
ing  their  way  down  the  sloping  bank.  Clearer 
came  the  sound  of  the  chase  behind  him,  the  creak 
of  leather  and  rattle  of  hoofs  among  the  loose 
stones  of  the  river  bed.  A  curse  and  a  shout, 
followed  by  a  bullet  splash  in  the  water  at  his 
feet,  told  that  at  last  they  had  caught  sight  of 
his  fleeing  form.  Carroll  knew  the  voice;  it  was 
that  of  Ballestos.  Another  bullet  sang  above 


AT  THE  DEVIL'S  ROCK  373 

his  head.  The  pounding  of  hoofs  and  exultant 
yells  drew  nearer  and  nearer. 

A  final  sprint,  and  he  dashed  into  the  compar 
ative  darkness  of  the  little  canon.  Turning 
sharply  to  the  left,  he  threw  himself  flat  into  the 
impenetrable  blackness  between  the  trees  and 
remained  motionless.  Kindly,  the  moon  slid 
behind  a  cloud,  and  past  him  his  pursuers  thun 
dered  in  wild  pursuit. 

Breathless,  exhausted,  he  lay,  until  the  hoofbeats 
died  away  in  the  distance.  He  glanced  upward 
for  his  landmarks.  Above  him  towered  the  tops 
of  the  evergreens  at  the  foot  of  which  he  had  sought 
refuge.  Behind  them  rose  a  steep  hill,  capped  by 
a  cone-shaped  rock.  The  summit,  he  calculated, 
would  afford  a  safe  hiding  place,  and  be  in 
accessible  to  horses.  There  one  man  could  stand  off 
a  thousand.  Even  that  might  not  be  necessary. 
If  they  discovered  his  ruse  and  returned,  he  might 
possibly  slip  over  the  narrow  isthmus-like  neck 
beyond  the  rock  and  escape  into  the  friendly  and 
more  remote  blackness  of  the  trees  beyond.  If 
cornered,  he  would  fight  to  the  end.  Capture 
meant  death — when  Ballestos  knew  the  quarry. 

With  infinite  caution  he  crept  up  the  steep  face 
of  the  slope,  clinging  to  the  shrubs,  straggling 
bushes,  grass  roots,  and  jutting  stones.  The  rock 
loomed  above  him,  nearer  and  closer,  clear-cut 
against  the  starlit  sky.  There  was  a  dark  gash 


374  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

across  its  front  a  few  feet  above  the  shadow  which 
shrouded  its  foot.  It  proved  to  be  a  low  cave, 
a  deep  gouge  across  the  face  of  the  pinnacle. 

Could  he  reach  the  opening?  It  seemed  an 
impossible  feat.  Standing  on  the  narrow  ledge 
at  the  foot  of  the  rock,  he  reached  his  arms  high 
above  his  head,  seeking  for  a  crevice,  a  piece  of 
roughened  rock  by  which  he  might  draw  himself 
up  into  the  cleft.  Under  ordinary  circumstances 
the  effort  would  be  slight,  but  necessity  for  silence 
made  it  difficult.  Slowly  the  groping  hands 
moved  across  the  rock  face.  At  last  a  lump  on 
the  slanting  surface  met  his  searching  fingers. 
Flattening  himself  against  the  wall  for  conceal 
ment,  he  drew  himself  up,  his  knees  scraping 
cruelly  as  he  glued  himself  to  the  almost  vertical 
face  of  the  rock.  Inch  by  inch  he  wriggled  up 
ward,  one  hand  reaching  out  for  another  hold, 
while,  limpet-like,  he  held  fast  with  toe,  elbow, 
shoulder,  and  chin.  Once  he  slipped,  and  as  his 
body  sank  a  little  a  thrill  of  fear  swept  over  him. 
For  a  moment  he  pictured  himself  crashing  to 
the  rock-strewn  stream  forty  feet  below. 

After  a  series  of  breathless  efforts,  and  what 
seemed  like  years,  he  found  himself  lying  in  the 
cleft,  his  heart  pounding  in  his  ears,  his  scraped 
knees  smarting  painfully,  his  fingers  torn  and 
bleeding,  but  his  tired  lungs  expanding  and  re 
leasing  joyfully  at  every  breath. 


AT  THE  DEVIL'S  ROCK  375 

Soldier-like,  he  mechanically  looked  to  his 
pistol.  Then  replacing  it  in  his  belt,  he  peered  out. 
Below  him  the  rock  jutted  out  in  a  mighty  chin, 
hiding  from  his  view  the  narrow  ribbon  of  ground 
where  he  had  stood  but  a  few  moments  before. 
Simultaneously,  he  heard  his  pursuers  crashing 
over  stones  and  through  underbrush. 

His  ruse  had  been  discovered ;  they  were  coming 
back.  The  splashing  of  horses'  feet  in  the  water, 
and  a  few  short  ejaculations  in  Castilian,  told  him 
that  his  stalkers  were  again  at  the  foot  of  the  slope. 

"The  cursed  American  is  somewhere  here," 
called  out  the  authoritative  voice  of  Ballestos. 
Then  the  officer  lowered  his  tone,  and  subdued 
but  excited  murmurs  came  to  the  man  hidden  in 
the  cleft  above. 

Again  Carroll  looked  out  cautiously.  Through 
a  rift  in  the  treetops  he  could  catch  a  glimpse 
of  Ballestos,  protesting,  ordering.  The  men  sat 
about,  silent,  on  their  horses. 

"God  and  his  angels,  Senor  Captain," — the 
speaker's  words  had  the  imperfection  of  utterance 
that  marked  the  half-Indian  peon, — "that  is  the 
Devil's  Rock.  Not  for  ten  thousand  pesos  would 
I  go  up  it.  Let  the  American  stay  with  the  devil 
who  owns  him." 

"Fool!"  snapped  Ballestos.  "Who  will  vol 
unteer?"  Again  their  voices  lowered  to  an 
indistinct  hum. 


376  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

The  hunted  man  waited,  trembling  with  ex 
haustion  and  excitement.  Would  their  super 
stitious  fears  after  all  overcome  their  desire  for 
vengeance?  This  was  indeed  the  Devil's  Rock, 
where  so  many  years  ago  the  ill-fated  Leo,  the 
father  of  Vanuela,  was  reputed  to  have  sung  his 
wicked  songs  and  chanted  his  unholy  litanies 
in  the  moonlight. 

In  spite  of  the  desperation  of  his  position, 
Carroll  smiled  grimly.  In  a  twinkling  he  changed 
his  plans.  A  pistol  shot  would  be  proof  positive 
to  the  trembling  Californians  below  that  their 
human  quarry  was  within  reach,  but  a  blow, 
unseen,  unheard,  would  inspire  them  with  terror. 
He  drew  his  heavy  army  pistol  from  his  belt, 
grasped  it  by  the  barrel,  and  creeping  to  the  edge 
of  the  rock  lip,  waited. 

Footsteps,  creeping,  climbing,  caused  him  to 
grasp  his  weapon  more  firmly,  rise  to  one  knee,  and 
lean  out  as  far  as  he  dared  within  the  shadow  of 
the  rock  above.  To  the  right  of  the  cleft  ap 
peared  a  black  head.  Warily  the  Californian 
came  on,  setting  one  foot  before  the  other  on  the 
narrow  path. 

As  he  stole  on,  stopping  at  every  step  to  scan 
the  obscurity  about  him,  his  head  was  almost 
on  a  level  with  the  floor  of  the  cave,  where 
knelt  Carroll,  one  hand  on  the  ground,  the  other 
grasping  the  pistol  upraised  in  readiness.  The 


AT  THE  DEVIL'S  ROCK  377 

Californian  had  evidently  made  the  ascent  from 
behind  the  rock,  where  the  slope  was  more  grad 
ual.  Apparently  he  expected  and  hoped  to  find 
no  hidden  fugitive. 

Down  came  the  pistol  butt  on  the  black  head, 
with  a  sickening  thud.  Without  even  a  moan 
the  man  fell,  rolling  and  sliding  into  the  darkness 
below.  As  the  sound  of  crashing  bushes  died 
away,  calls  of  inquiry  came  from  below. 

Immediately  another  Californian  came  silently 
around  the  rock  from  the  left,  dropped  some 
five  feet  to  the  narrow  ledge,  and  looked  about 
him  inquiringly. 

"Pedro,"  he  called  softly. 

Again  Carroll's  long  arm  shot  out  from  the 
black  cave  above  the  man's  head;  the  pistol  butt 
caught  him  fairly  above  the  temple.  With  a 
funny  little  squeal — a  short  of  still-born  shriek, 
the  Californian  reeled  outward.  Again  the  crash 
ing  of  bushes  and  the  trickling  of  stones  told  of  a 
damaging  slide  and  fall. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  slope  all  was  confusion 
and  terror.  They  had  seen  the  forms  of  their  two 
comrades  come  rolling  and  tumbling  toward  them, 
but  the  figure  of  Carroll  was  hidden  from  their 
sight  by  the  intervening  treetops. 

Ballestos  swore  softly,  and  crossed  himself. 
Dragging  the  two  stricken  men  from  beneath  the 
tree  trunks  at  the  foot  of  the  slope,  they  found 


378  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

that  Pedro  was  unconscious,  and  his  companion 
dazed  and  badly  hurt. 

"Truly  it  is  the  devil's  rock,"  he  moaned.  "I 
was  struck  and  cast  down  by  no  one  that  I  could 
see.  It  was  the  devil  himself." 

The  Californians  looked  at  one  another,  at 
their  officers,  at  the  rock  gleaming  gray- white 
behind  the  treetops. 

"Por  Dios,"  muttered  one,  "I  would  we  were 
well  away  from  here." 

"Hearken,  men,"  came  the  voice  of  Ballestos. 
"Will  you  allow  the  accursed  American  to  escape 
who  has  almost  murdered  your  colonel,  Don  Jos6 
Antonio  Arillo?  He  is  doubtless  an  American 
scout  who  has  stumbled  on  our  camp.  Well  you 
know  that  he  will  carry  to  Stockton  at  the  pueblo 
the  news  of  our  whereabouts.  We  will  riddle  the 
hill  with  bullets,  and  charge  up  together." 

His  words  came  clearly  to  the  man  above. 
Worn  by  the  emotional  stress  of  the  last  few  hours, 
and  tired  by  his  strenuous  physical  efforts, 
Carroll  felt  almost  tempted  to  laugh  aloud  at  the 
mockery  of  fate.  He,  who  had  undoubtedly 
saved  the  life  of  Don  Jos6  Antonio,  was  counted 
his  would-be  murderer;  he,  who  had  determined 
to  make  an  appeal  to  Fremont  for  mercy  for  the 
condemned  men,  was  believed  to  be  a  scout  who 
would  carry  to  the  enemy  the  news  of  their 
whereabouts.  With  set  teeth  and  burning  heart 


AT  THE  DEVIL'S  ROCK  379 

the  hunted  man  registered  a  vow  that  if  fortune 
favored  him,  and  he  escaped  from  his  present 
predicament,  nothing,  not  even  the  fear  of  the  gal 
lows,  would  save  Hugo  Vanuela  from  his  vengeance. 

His  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  the  rattle  of 
accouterments,  as  the  men  dismounted  and  loaded 
their  pieces.  The  appeal  of  Ballestos  had  had 
its  effect.  Carroll  noted  their  forming  in  line 
about  the  foot  of  the  slope.  He  drew  his  sword 
and  laid  it  beside  him,  and  looked  again  to  the 
priming  of  his  pistol. 

The  outlook  seemed  hopeless.  Yet  he  had  no 
thought  of  surrender.  In  their  present  temper  it 
would  be  useless  to  look  for  mercy  from  the 
men  who  believed  he  had  attempted  to  murder 
an  unarmed  and  helpless  man.  Ballestos,  ever 
vindictive,  would  see  that  they  listened  to  no 
explanations.  Carroll's  retreat  once  discovered, 
a  dozen  long  lances  thrust  into  the  cleft,  or  a 
plunging  upward  volley  from  the  escopetas  at 
close  range,  would  bring  the  end.  They  would 
murder  him  if  he  surrendered,  and  if  taken  to 
task  would  say  he  died  resisting. 

Suddenly  he  thought  of  his  dispatches.  It 
was  his  duty  to  s'  \*.  that  they  did  not  fall  into  the 
hands  of  the  enemy.  Drawing  them  from  his 
doublet,  his  fingers  began  to  twist  them  to  bits. 
He  could  bury  the  pieces  in  the  sand  on  the  floor 
of  the  cave. 


Again  the  man's  soul  was  shaken  by  a  tempta 
tion  so  strong  yet  so  insidious  that  as  he  struggled 
with  it  the  cold  drops  gathered  on  his  brow.  Once 
destroyed,  the  dispatches  with  their  merciless 
message  could  never  reach  Fremont,  whether  he 
himself  escaped  or  whether  sunrise  would  see  his 
shot-riddled  body  sprawling  at  the  foot  of  the 
slope.  Perhaps,  as  Loreto  had  said,  their  destruc 
tion  would  save  the  life  of  Don  Jos6  Antonio 
Arillo.  It  was  the  one  thing  he  could  do,  dying, 
to  yield  his  honor  that  the  father  of  Loreto 
Arillo  might  live.  Even  now  she  was  praying, 
and  her  prayers  were  about  to  be  answe^d. 
"That  you  shall  never  reach  Fremont — tAat 
you  shall  die  before  sunrise,"  she  had  said.  So 
the  accursed  Indian  hag  had  spoken!  "She  who 
loves  you  shall  pray  for  your  death." 

The  tense  fingers  bent  again  in  a  tearing  motion. 
Then  came  from  the  foot  of  the  slope  the  voice  of 
Ballestos. 

"Ready!  Aim!"  Carroll,  his  temptation  van 
ished,  hurriedly  thrust  himself  backward  into  the 
inmost  corner  of  the  fissure.  Unconsciously  he 
had  returned  the  papers  to  hisnloublet. 

"Fire!" 

A  thundering  volley  blazed  out  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill.  Carroll  heard  the  sharp  splatter  of  lead 
against  the  rock,  and  his  cheek  stung  as  a  bullet 
sent  a  spray  of  stone  dust  into  his  face. 


AT  THE  DEVIL'S  ROCK  381 

"Now,  boys,  forward!"  came  the  voice  of  the 
officer.  "Climb  slowly;  keep  close  together;  hold 
your  lances  short.  Stab  at  every  suspicious 
shadow.  We'll  get  him,  sure." 

The  ascent  was  never  begun.  The  voice  of 
Ballestos  broke  suddenly  into  a  wail  of  terror: 

"Jesus  Maria,  what  is  that?" 

There  was  a  death-like  silence  for  a  moment, 
then  came  a  simultaneous  piercing  shriek  of  terror 
from  the  entire  band. 

"The  Black  Matador!    The  Black  Matador!" 

With  a  scramble  of  hoofs  and  yells  of  fear  they 
galloped  down  the  arroyo  in  a  wild  panic,  never 
waiting  to  set  foot  in  stirrup,  but  clinging  monkey- 
like  to  their  horses'  necks. 

Carroll,  marveling  at  the  strange  rout,  waited 
for  an  instant,  hardly  crediting  his  senses.  All 
was  silence  save  for  the  merry  prattling  of  the 
rill  at  the  foot  of  the  slope.  Carefully  he  lowered 
himself  from  the  rock  lip  and,  dropping  to  the 
narrow  ledge  beneath,  looked  up  at  the  summit. 

There,  outlined  against  the  background  of  the 
moonlit  heavens,  his  arms  folded,  his  head  bent, 
stood  the  familiar  figure  of  the  Black  Matador, 
as  he  had  last  seen  it  the  night  the  mysterious 
phantom  had  given  him  life  and  freedom  at  the 
lonely  adobe  back  of  the  Paredon  Bluff. 

From  far  down  the  arroyo  flashed  a  random 
shot — a  shot  fired  in  the  sheer  bravado  of 
25 


382  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

cowardice,  or  by  accident,  by  one  of  the  fleeing 
men.  The  black  figure  swayed,  bent  at  the 
knees,  clutched  at  his  breast,  and  with  a  ghastly 
thud  tumbled  down  the  rock  face. 

Carroll  bent  over  the  crumpled  figure  at  his  feet. 

"Marshall — Jim — is  it  you?  Are  you  hurt?" 
he  asked  as  his  fingers  wrought  hurriedly  with  the 
fastenings  of  the  black  mask. 

Suddenly  it  came  away  in  his  hands  and  dropped 
to  the  ground.  He  was  looking  down  into  a 
handsome  face  distorted  with  the  agonies  of  death 
— the  face  of  Servolo  Palera. 

Carroll's  parched  lips  refused  to  whisper. 

"They  are  gone.  Thanks  be  to  the  Virgin  for 
that,"  Palera  gasped  as  he  opened  his  great  dark 
eyes,  clouded  with  the  film  of  death.  "Thou  art 
safe,  friend  Carroll — she  will  be  glad — tell  her— 

His  voice  failed,  and  he  sank  back,  the  blood 
bubbling  from  his  lips. 

Quickly  Carroll  tore  away  the  black  garments. 
There  was  no  hope.  Palera  was  shot  through  the 
chest,  a  ragged,  gaping  wound,  from  which  the 
blood  welled  in  copious  floods  with  each  pulsation 
of  the  heart. 

"Servolo,  my  good  friend,"  the  American  said 
tremulously,  "my  adversary  only  by  the  cruel 
chance  of  war — thou  who  hast  so  many  times 
befriended  me — it  was  thou,  was  it  not,  who  set 
me  free  that  night  by  the  Paredon  Bluff?" 


AT  THE  DEVIL'S  ROCK  383 

"Yes,  it  was  I, — with  the  aid  of  my  brother 
Hilario."  Servolo's  voice  broke  into  a  sob.  "He 
died  on  the  mesa  to-day.  Father  Estenaga,  too, 
aided  in  thy  escape." 

"But — but  how  comest  thou  here?"  queried 
the  astounded  Carroll. 

"My  heart  longed  for  a  last  sight  of  her.  After 
the  battle  I  rode  to  the  pueblo.  I  witnessed  your 
meeting  without  the  door.  When  thou  hadst 
gone,  I  heard  her  sobbing — for  thee.  I — " 

His  eyes  closed,  and  gasped  for  breath;  then, 
as  the  paroxysm  passed,  he  went  on : 

"I  knew  well  thou  wert  riding  to  danger. 
From  the  pueblo  I  followed  thee, — to  warn, — 
to  protect,  if  need  be, — " 

With  an  effort  he  raised  himself  on  his  elbow. 

"For  her — for  Loreto  Arillo — have  I  done 
what  I  have  done — that  she  might  be  happy. 
Tell  her — tell  her — that,  dying,  I  loved  her — 
happy  that  I  have  saved  the  man  she  loves. 
Tell—" 

Carroll,  his  eyes  welling  with  tears,  caught  him 
in  his  arms  as  he  sank  back. 

"Sometimes — sometimes,"  came  from  the  blood 
stained  lips,  so  faintly  that  the  lieutenant  bent 
close  to  hear,  "ask  her  to  think  of  me  in  the  days 
to  come. 

"Do  not  weep  my  friend,"  he  said,  as  his 
clouding  eyes  looked  up  into  Carroll's  face;  "I 


384  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

am  glad  to  die  for  her  as  our  martyrs  were  glad 
to  die  for  the  Holy  Faith.  For  a  long  time  have 
I  known  it  had  to  be — that  the  end  of  my  days 
was  close  at  hand.  Far — far  better  it  is  so. 
Death  to  me  is  sweeter  far  than  life  would  be 
without  her.  Behind  the  rock  is  my  horse.  Ride, 
ride!"  A  tremor  convulsed  his  frame.  His 
whispered  tones  became  childish  and  caressing. 

"Loreto,  mi  querida — laugh  for  joy — weep 
not  for  me.  Have  I  not  saved  thy  lover  ?  Loreto 
—  I  love — thee." 

The  blood  surged  again  to  his  lips,  his  head  fell 
to  one  side.  The  Black  Matador  would  ride  no 
more.  Servolo  Palera  was  dead. 

Overwhelmed  by  the  revelation,  John  Carroll 
sat  like  a  man  of  stone.  Far  from  his  thoughts 
were  the  dispatches,  the  Californian  camp  but  a 
mile  away,  and  Vanuela  hurrying  to  Fremont  on 
his  mission  of  vengeance.  He  only  remembered 
that  he  was  gazing  down  into  the  sightless  eyes 
of  a  man  who  had  loved  with  a  love  that  passeth 
the  understanding  of  man,  a  man  who  had 
twice  saved  his  life  and  at  the  end  given  his  own 
that  joy  and  love  should  be  the  portion  of  Loreto 
Arillo — and  John  Carroll. 

The  lieutenant  sat  alone  in  the  moonlight,  the 
dead  man's  head  on  his  knee,  and  wept  like  a 
little  child.  Grotesquely  the  trees  about  him 
seemed  to  assume  fantastic  shapes,  and  a  wolf  on 


AT  THE  DEVIL'S  ROCK  385 

the  far  foothills,  scenting  death,  howled  dismally. 

Tenderly  he  wiped  the  blood-stained  face  with 
his  handkerchief,  and  reverently  closed  the  star 
ing  eyes.  On  the  dark,  handsome  face  of  the 
dead  poet,  framed  in  its  flowing,  wavy  locks,  was 
a  look  of  unutterable  content. 

With  one  last  backward  look  at  the  black- 
clad  figure  on  the  narrow  ledge,  Carroll  climbed 
the  ridge  and  found  Servolo's  horse,  standing 
with  drooping  head,  patiently  awaiting  the  return 
of  his  master — the  master  whose  hand  on  its 
rein  it  would  never  know  again. 

Once  in  the  saddle,  Carroll's  thought  reverted 
to  his  mission.  He  sighed  wearily.  Vanuela 
had  now  a  full  hour's  start :  nothing  but  the  inter 
position  of  Heaven  itself  could  prevent  him  from 
reaching  Fremont  first,  and  bringing  him  down 
like  a  whirlwind  on  the  Calif ornian  camp. 

Yet  his  duty  was  clear:  the  dispatches  must  be 
delivered.  There  was,  too,  a  possible  chance 
that  he  might  intercept  Fremont's  force  on  the 
way  to  make  a  night  attack  on  the  Calif ornians. 
Spurring  his  startled  and  sensitive  steed  into  a 
furious  gallop,  he  swung  away  to  the  west  toward 
the  Cahuenga  Pass  on  as  wild  a  ride  as  the  horrors 
of  war  ever  inspired. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

AN   HONORABLE   PEACE 

S,  Senor  Colonel  Fremont,"  Hugo  Vanuela 
was  saying,  "you  can  capture  them  easily. 
They  are  but  twenty  miles  distant  to  the  east, 
at  the  San  Pasqual  Rancho  of  Don  Jose  Antonio 
Arillo.  They  are  disheartened,  their  powder  ex 
hausted,  and  their  ranks  weakened  by  desertions. 
A  quick  gallop  through  the  night  with  your  entire 
force,  and  you  can  end  the  war." 

Vanuela's  voice  was  eager,  his  eye  bright  with 
unconcealed  joy.  The  hope  of  years,  the  planning 
of  many  months,  the  dream  of  his  life,  was  ap 
proaching  triumphant  realization.  The  fall  of  the 
house  of  Arillo  was  at  hand. 

The  two  men  were  alone  in  a  vaquero's  hut  at 
the  foot  of  the  Cahuenga  Pass.  Fremont  made 
no  reply;  he  was  studying  the  face  of  Vanuela. 
Ever  a  judge  of  men,  there  was  something  in  the 
Calif ornian's  personality  that  made  him  hesitate. 
Yet  there  was  no  good  reason  to  disbelieve  the 
stranger's  story;  for  more  than  once  during  his 
long  march  southward  from  Monterey  had  come 
to  the  Pathfinder's  ears  rumors  of  a  conflict  in 
which  the  Califomians  had  been  worsted. 

"Good,"  he  said  at  length.  "Senor  Vanuela, 
you  yourself  shall  guide  us  to  the  camp  of  the 

386 


AN  HONORABLE  PEACE  387 

enemy.  You  will  ride  ahead  with  an  armed 
guard  on  either  side  of  you.  They  shall  have 
orders  to  shoot  you  dead  at  the  first  sign  of  treach 
ery."  Somehow,  he  had  no  idea  of  Vanuela  re 
senting  his  distrust. 

Fremont's  piercing  eyes  were  full  on  Vanuela's 
face,  but  he  could  find  no  sign  of  flinching  in  the 
Calif ornian's  steady  gaze. 

4 '  That  is  well , ' '  Hugo  answered  calmly.  ' '  I  am 
satisfied." 

The  American  was  convinced. 

" The  necessary  orders  shall  be  given  at  once." 

He  called  aloud,  and  an  orderly  entered  the 
room. 

"Have  the  bugle  sound  'Boots  and  saddles," 
he  ordered.     "We  march  in  twenty  minutes  — 
all  but  ten  men,  who  will  remain  behind  to  guard 
the  baggage." 

From  the  next  room  came  sounds  of  a  loud  alter 
cation,  and  Lieutenant  Jack  Carroll  burst  into  the 
room.  He  was  pale,  breathless,  and  apparently 
exhausted. 

"Stop!"  He  held  up  his  hand  with  a  com 
manding  gesture. 

"Who  are  you?"  Fremont  demanded  angrily. 
"How  dare  you  countermand  my  orders?" 

"Lieutenant  John  Carroll  of  the  Marine  Corps," 
he  panted,  "now  of  Stockton's  volunteer  com 
pany." 


388  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

A  flash  of  recollection  came  into  the  face  of  the 
Pathfinder. 

"Ah,  yes;  I  remember  you  now — in  the  pueblo 
last  summer.  You  remained  with  Captain  Gillie. 
You  were  there  when  the  revolt  broke  out.  But — " 

"For  God's  sake,  colonel,"  interrupted  Carroll, 
"in  the  name  of  humanity,  wait — hear  me  before 
you  give  that  order." 

Vanuela's  deep  voice  broke  in.  "The  Senor 
Carroll  doubtless  carries  dispatches  from  Commo 
dore  Stockton.  Hence  his  haste  and  agitation." 

Hugo's  mind  had  come  to  a  swift  conclusion. 
In  no  other  way  could  be  explained  Carroll's 
presence  near  the  arroyo,  and  his  unexpected 
appearance  here.  The  Californian  was  smiling 
happily;  the  dispatches  once  in  Fremont's  hands, 
he  had  but  little  fear  of  the  outcome.  He  knew 
they  contained  the  death  warrant  of  the  Dons. 

Carroll's  eyes,  burning  with  bitter  hate,  were 
fastened  on  Vanuela. 

"There,  colonel,  stands  the  man  who  is  respon 
sible  for  every  drop  of  blood  shed  in  California," 
he  cried. 

"Have  you  dispatches  for  me?"  Fremont's 
voice  was  tinged  with  impatience. 

"Hear  me  first,  colonel — " 

"Lieutenant  Carroll,  hand  me  the  dispatches." 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  peremptory  tone. 
Fremont's  patience  was  at  a  breaking  point. 


AN  HONORABLE  PEACE  389 

For  a  moment  no  sound  could  be  heard  in  the 
room  but  Carroll's  hard-drawn  breath  as  he 
leaned  one  hand  against  the  wall,  an  expression 
of  utter  despair  on  his  drawn  face.  Reluctantly 
his  other  hand  reached  into  his  doublet. 

Fremont  was  puzzled.  He  scrutinized  in  turn 
the  faces  of  the  two  men.  There  was  something 
here  beyond  his  understanding.  As  Carroll  placed 
the  papers  in  the  colonel's  hands,  Hugo  grinned 
gleefully.  The  Gods  of  Chance  were  with  him; 
but  he  frowned  uneasily  a  moment  later,  when 
Fremont  laid  the  missives  on  the  table  and  said 
quietly : 

"Lieutenant  Carroll,  I  will  hear  you  now." 
Then,  noticing  the  waiting  orderly,  "You  may  pass 
without,  Lieutenant  McLane,  but  remain  within 
call.  Proceed,  Lieutenant  Carroll,  but  be  brief." 

"Will  not  the  colonel  read  his  dispatches?" 
suggested  Vanuela. 

"Silence!"  snapped  Fremont. 

The  colonel's  keen  intuition  and  quick  sym 
pathy,  a  part  of  his  Gallic  inheritance,  convinced 
him  that  in  the  lieutenant's  tale  he  would  find  the 
explanation  of  the  curious  conduct  and  strange 
demeanor  of  the  two  men.  In  Carroll's  face  he 
had  noted  the  signs  of  intense  mental  suffering. 
He  knew  him  as  a  capable  officer  and  an  honorable 
man;  of  the  other  he  knew  nothing,  save  that  he 
was  a  deserter  from  a  hopeless  cause. 


390  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"Colonel  Fremont,"  said  Carroll,  his  voice 
now  under  control,  "there  stands  the  man  who, 
assisted  by  a  British  spy,  conceived  and  organized 
the  revolt  in  the  pueblo.  All  the  brave  fellows 
who  have  died  are  that  one  man's  victims." 
His  voice  broke  with  emotion.  "He  is  the  one," 
his  voice  rising  almost  to  a  scream  of  hate,  "who 
began  it  all.  He  has  been  a  traitor  to  both  sides — 
a  red-handed  murderer." 

Vanuela's  easy  smile  had  a  trace  of  contempt. 

"For  Dios,  colonel,  I  cannot  dream  of  any 
reason  for  so  wild  a  charge  unless  it  be  that  the 
lieutenant's  reverses  as  a  lover  have  inspired  in 
him  a  desire  to  injure  a  more  favored  rival.  You 
will  understand,  colonel,"  he  added,  as  he  leered 
insultingly  at  Carroll.  "We  both  admire  the 
same  lady.  The  lieutenant  is  vindictive." 

Vanuela's  calm  assurance,  and  especially  his 
last  words,  maddened  the  lieutenant.  Springing 
forward,  he  drove  his  fist  full  in  Hugo's  face  and, 
wild  with  uncontrollable  passion,  struck  him 
again  and  again  in  the  mouth,  sending  him  in  a 
heap  against  the  wall.  The  Californian,  spitting 
blood  and  teeth,  staggered  to  his  feet  and  drew 
his  sword.  He  stopped  suddenly;  he  was  staring 
into  the  muzzle  of  a  pistol  in  the  hands  of  Colonel 
Fremont. 

"Swasey!  Bryant!"  called  the  colonel,  now 
boiling  with  anger  at  a  brawl  in  his  presence. 


AN  HONORABLE  PEACE  391 

"Both  these  men  are  under  arrest,"  he  said  to 
the  guards,  who,  rifle  in  hand,  had  rushed  into 
the  room. 

"Cover  them  with  your  rifles.  Stand  them 
against  the  wall.  There,  that  will  do."  Fre 
mont's  face  was  flushed  with  indignation  and 
excitement,  but  his  words  were  cool  and  deliberate. 

"Now,"  he  said  quietly,  as  he  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  table,  the  pistol  still  in  his  hand,  "we  are 
going  to  get  at  the  facts,  and  some  one  is  going  to 
suffer  for  this  disgraceful  scene." 

With  the  muzzles  of  the  loaded  rifles  gaping  in 
their  faces,  Carroll  and  Vanuela  stood  with  their 
backs  against  the  wall.  Hugo's  chin  was  dabbled 
with  blood,  flowing  in  a  steady  stream  from  his 
battered  mouth.  Carroll  was  white,  and  panting 
with  rage. 

"Now,  lieutenant,  tell  your  story." 

"That  man  there,  in  company  with  a  British 
secret  agent,  one  MacNamara,  who  was  known 
in  the  pueblo  as  Almagro,  instigated  the  revolt." 

At  the  name  MacNamara,  Fremont  was  all 
attention. 

' '  MacNamara ! "  he  exclaimed.  ' '  The  Irishman 
to  whom  Governor  Pico  made  the  land  grant? 
But  he  was  a  priest." 

"Never  a  priest — an  English  army  officer." 

"Yes,"  broke  in  Vanuela  with  cool  effrontery, 
"that  is  true.  He  was  an  English  secret  agent, 


392  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

and  I  killed  him  when  I  discovered  his  plans. 
Here  are  his  papers  to  prove  it.  I  am  glad  the 
lieutenant  and  myself  have  one  point  on  which 
we  can  agree." 

Hugo  had  never  intended,  in  spite  of  his  boasts 
to  Arillo,  to  deliver  the  Englishman's  documents 
to  Fremont.  The  forged  signatures  would  neces 
sitate  too  many  explanations.  But  the  unexpected 
condition  of  affairs  by  which  he  was  confronted 
had  forced  his  hand.  As  he  passed  the  blood 
stained  papers  to  the  colonel,  his  bleeding  mouth 
twisted  in  a  confident  smile. 

"Yes,"  retorted  Carroll,  "you  murdered  him 
in  cold  blood  after  you  had  taken  his  gold — 
worked  with  him  as  his  spy — led  him  on." 

"But  for  what — why — I  do  not  understand," 
Fremont  demanded. 

"For  a  personal  revenge  only — that  Don 
Jos6  Antonio  Arillo  might  be  led  to  break  his 
parole — that  he  might  die  on  the  scaffold.  This 
man  has  hated  Arillo  for  years.  He  is  a  half- 
breed  Indian,  whom  the  genie  de  razon  would 
never  recognize  as  their  equal.  For  years  they 
have  scorned  him,  as  they  scorned  his  father." 

"Colonel,"  said  Vanuela  pityingly,  "the  man 
merely  vents  his  personal  enmity  to  make  such  a 
charge  against  me.  Don  Jos6  Antonio  is  a  very 
good  friend  of  mine;  he — " 

"Shoot  him  where  he  stands  if  he  utters  another 


AN  HONORABLE  PEACE  393 

word,"  Fremont  said  to  the  guard  in  front  of 
Vanuela.  The  Pathfinder's  experienced  eye  had 
quickly  noted  the  confirmation  of  Carroll's  words 
in  Hugo's  swarthy  face  and  high  cheek  bones. 

"I'll  have  this  story  without  interruption," 
he  continued.  "Go  on,  lieutenant.  How  do  you 
know  all  this?  What  proof  have  you?" 

Like  some  Olympian  avenger,  Carroll  stood 
before  the  fast  paling  conspirator.  Link  by  link 
he  told  the  story  of  Vanuela's  machinations. 

"Scorned  by  the  quality  of  the  pueblo,  ostra 
cized  on  account  of  his  Indian  blood,  ever  vicious, 
with  the  vendetta  inherited  from  his  father,  it 
was  this  man  who  inspired  these  peaceful  people 
to  hopeless  revolt,  disaster,  and  death.  His 
first  move  was  to  plot  the  revolution,  working 
with  MacNamara  and  using  his  gold  freely  among 
the  young,  hot-blooded  youth  of  the  pueblo. 
Then  he  became  Captain  Gillie's  spy,  that  he 
might  also  use  him  to  gain  his  end — his  revenge 
on  Arillo.  Working  with  both  sides,  he  had 
wonderful  influence.  It  was  he  who  gave  to 
Gillie  a  list  of  alleged  conspirators  and  had  them 
dragged  to  prison  in  chains  because  of  a  boyish 
escapade  which  he  himself  had  inspired  with  his 
liquor  and  gold.  This  caused  the  first  deaths, 
those  of  young  Reyes  and  old  Yorba. 

"The  Dons,  whose  humiliation  he  thus  accom 
plished,  are  men  of  the  highest  honor.  They  had 


394  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

kept  the  terms  of  their  paroles  to  the  letter  until 
Captain  Gillie  himself  broke  its  one  unwritten 
condition,  that  their  persons  and  property  should 
be  respected — broke  it  by  dragging  them  from 
their  beds,  from  their  weeping  families,  and 
loading  them  with  chains.  This  is  no  time  for 
niceties.  With  all  due  respect  for  Captain  Gillie, 
who  will  bear  witness  to  the  truth  I  am  speaking, 
it  was  Vanuela's  hatred  of  the  Dons,  and  especially 
of  Arillo,  the  plotting  of  the  English  spy  Mac- 
Namara,  and  the  errors  of  the  captain  as  an 
administrator,  and  nothing  else,  that  have  caused 
and  continued  this  war." 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  little  room  but  the 
resonant  tones  of  Carroll,  high  pitched,  rever 
berating  from  wall  and  ceiling.  Fremont  was 
intent  and  eager;  Vanuela,  contemptuous,  cynical, 
almost  debonair,  smiling  at  each  point  Carroll 
made  and  clinched  like  a  prosecutor  before  a 
court. 

The  guards,  forgetful  of  orders,  moved  by  the 
intensity  of  the  strange  scene,  allowed  their 
rifle  muzzles  to  sink  to  the  ground  as  they  blinked 
wonderingly  in  the  insufficient  light. 

"But  that  is  not  all.  Perhaps  the  exigencies 
of  war  might  excuse  him,  were  he  not  a  spy,  a 
murderer,  and  an  assassin.  From  his  own  lips 
have  I  heard  the  story  of  his  villainy.  On  my 
way  to  reach  you  I  almost  stumbled  on  the 


AN  HONORABLE  PEACE  395 

Californian  camp,  and  took  refuge  in  the  branches 
of  a  great  tree.  I  saw  him  disarm  Arillo  and 
then  proceed  to  torture  him,  taunting  him  with 
his  own  helplessness — Arillo  was  tied  hand  and 
foot — and  boastingly  unfold  to  him  the  story  of 
the  success  that  would  soon  attend  his  planning 
of  months.  All  of  this  as  a  preliminary  to  as 
diabolical  and  cold-blooded  a  murder  as  man  made 
in  the  image  of  God  ever  premeditated.  His 
dagger  was  at  Arillo 's  throat  when  I  fired  from 
the  tree.  Note  his  head,  Colonel,  where  the 
ball  grazed  the  scalp.  Oh,  that  it  had  gone 
truer!" 

Fremont  stepped  closer  to  Vanuela,  parted  with 
his  fingers  the  yellow  hair  over  his  ear.  His  face 
hardened  as  Carroll  further  detailed  the  cruel 
deliberation  of  Vanuela's  attempt  to  take  Arillo's 
life,  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  Californians, 
and  the  escape  of  both  into  the  arroyo. 

"But  wait,"  commanded  the  lieutenant,  as 
Fremont's  face  gave  signs  of  his  feelings.  "There 
is  one  thing  more  you  must  know.  He  claims 
to  be  our  friend,  yet  but  for  him  the  pueblo 
would  have  been  peacefully  surrendered  to 
Stockton  last  October.  Arillo  was  ready,  Alvaro 
was  ready,  Cota  was  ready,  their  officers  were 
ready.  But  Vanuela,  traitor  to  both  sides, 
anxious  only  for  the  success  of  his  own  damnable 
revenge,  prevented  it  by  a  forged  message  to  the 


396  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

man  who  was  to  give  the  signal  for  the  flag  of 
truce.  Benito  Willard  himself  will  testify  to  this. 
And  why?  Because  such  a  surrender  would 
permit  Arillo  to  live. 

"In  the  still  night  at  San  Gabriel  he  murdered 
the  Englishman  MacNamara — stabbed  him  to 
death  because  he  had  no  further  use  for  him,  and 
because  he  wished  to  see  the  Americans  victorious 
and  the  men  who  had  been  forced  by  the  pressure 
of  events  to  break  their  paroles  die — to  see 
Don  Jose  Antonio  Arillo  die  a  felon's  death  on 
the  scaffold. 

"As  I  heard  him  boast  to  the  helpless  Arillo, 
he  comes  now  to  make  of  Fremont  the  same  dupe 
he  made  of  MacNamara,  of  Flores,  of  Gillie,  of 
every  one  who  ever  listened  to  his  serpent  tongue. 
Of  you  he  hopes  to  make  a  tool  to  wreak  his 
vengeance  on  Arillo — " 

"Wait  a  moment." 

Fremont,  absorbed,  enthralled  by  the  burning 
words  of  Carroll,  words  that  came  flowing  from 
a  heart  for  months  laden  with  sorrow  and  appre 
hension,  had  forgotten  the  blood-stained  papers 
in  his  hands.  "Wait  till  I  look  at  these." 

Quickly  he  ran  his  eye  over  the  credentials  of  the 
secret  agent,  signed  by  a  member  of  the  British 
cabinet,  and  the  petition  to  the  British  admiral 
at  Monterey  with  its  long  list  of  Californian  sig 
natures,  smeared  with  MacNamara's  blood. 


AN  HONORABLE  PEACE  397 

"It  all  confirms  your  tale,  lieutenant.  But 
these  signatures — if  they  be  genuine —  The 
man  seems  to  have  done  us  some  service.'* 

"Forgeries,  every  one  of  them.  He  fooled  the 
Englishman.  I  heard  him  admit  it  to  Arillo. 
He  played  traitor  to  MacNamara  even  as  he  be 
trayed  his  own  country.  True,  he  wished  us  to  be 
victorious,  but  only  that  Arillo  might  die.  God, 
how  he  taunted  that  bound  and  helpless  man, 
insulting  even  the  virtue  of  his  daughter,  till 
I  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  I  fired  upon 
him." 

Fremont  glared  at  Vanuela.  Hugo  had  but 
one  card  left — his  bravado. 

"Shall  I  not  be  heard?"  he  demanded,  in  spite 
of  the  threatening  muzzle  before  his  face. 

"You  shall,"  said  Fremont,  "at  your  trial,  and 
may  God  have  mercy  on  your  soul.  Guards, 
take  him  away." 

Before  Hugo  and  the  guards  reached  the  door, 
a  slight,  dark-bearded  Calif ornian  stepped  within 
the  room.  As  Vanuela  stared  at  him,  despair 
came  into  his  face. 

"Don  Jesus  Pico — alive!"  he  gasped.  His 
face  grew  suddenly  aged.  With  head  bent,  he 
followed  the  guard  out  the  door.  Hugo  Vanuela's 
hope  was  fast  oozing  away. 

At  Vanuela's  startled  words  Carroll's  heart 
bounded  with  joy.  Don  Jesus  Pico,  who  had 
26 


3Q8  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

broken  his  parole — Don  Jesus  Pico,  whom  Fre 
mont  was  reported  to  have  court-martialed  and 
shot  at  San  Luis  Obispo  weeks  ago,  stood  before 
him,  alive  and  well !  Then  Fremont  had  already 
shown  mercy.  Now  was  the  time  to  plead  for 
the  life  of  his  friends. 

"In  God's  name,  colonel,  have  mercy.  It  is 
true  you  can  easily  attack  and  capture  them. 
Such  an  action  would  make  of  them  prisoners  of 
war,  and  as  such,  subject  to  a  court-martial  for 
breaking  their  paroles,  a  court-martial  to  which 
there  could  be  but  one  result. 

"Colonel  Fremont,  spare  these  men  of  the 
pueblo !  These  gentle,  high-minded  Dons  are  not 
and  never  have  been  our  enemies.  We  have  driven 
them  to  war,  and  now  we  would  murder  them  for 
sins  that  never  were  theirs.  I  believe  they  are 
willing  to  surrender.  Grant  them  terms  that  they 
can  honorably  accept — terms  that  will  include 
forgiveness  for  the  broken  paroles." 

Again  he  held  Fremont's  eyes  captive  while  he 
vividly  pictured  events  in  the  pueblo  leading  up 
to  the  riot  at  the  gate, — the  burdensome  regula 
tions  laid  on  the  shoulders  of  a  free  people,  the 
harsh  rule  of  Gillie,  and  the  midnight  arrest  of  the 
Dons.  As  Gillie's  name  fell  again  from  his  lips, 
Fremont  nodded  comprehendingly. 

"A  brave  man,  a  good  soldier,  but  tactless — 
tactless.  But  wait  —  I  have  forgotten.  The 


AN  HONORABLE  PEACE  399 

commodore's  dispatches,"  he  said,  as  he  turned 
to  the  table. 

As  he  peered  over  the  unfolded  papers,  his 
brown,  unshaven  face  darkened  with  displeasure, 
and  a  look  of  worriment  wrinkled  his  brows. 

"Commodore  Stockton's  instructions  are  plain 
enough,"  he  sighed.  "Unconditional  surrender 
of  their  armed  forces,  and  no  amnesty  to  be 
granted  to  the  six  that  he  has  mentioned,  Flores, 
Arillo,  Garfias,  Alvaro,  Pico,  and  De  la  Guerra." 

"But  you  have  information,"  persisted  Carroll, 
"of  which  Commander  Stockton  never  dreamed. 
In  the  light  of  my  evidence  and  your  own  deduc 
tions,  to  carry  out  Stockton's  instructions  and  to 
place  these  men  in  the  hands  of  a  court-martial  of 
his  and  Kearney's  men,  smarting  as  they  are  over 
the  defeats  at  Dominguez  and  San  Pascual,  would 
be  equivalent  to  their  unjustifiable  slaughter." 

Fremont's  brow  puckered.  He  was  far  more  of 
a  scientist  than  a  soldier.  Never  a  stickler  for 
military  etiquette,  he  had  allowed  the  subordinate 
to  become,  as  it  were,  a  pleader  before  him. 

"Colonel,"  persisted  Carroll,  "has  there  not 
been  blood  enough  already — bloodshed  that,  as 
as  we  now  know,  was  useless  and  unnecessary? 
Both  sides  have  made  mistakes." 

"In  the  days  to  come,"  came  the  gentle  voice 
of  Don  Jesus  Pico,  strangely  convincing  and 
soothing  after  Carroll's  impassioned  tones,  "shall 


400  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

the  historian  write  that  the  Americans  began 
their  rule  in  California  with  an  act  of  vengeance 
or  by  a  deed  of  mercy  ?  Shall  the  Calif ornians  of 
the  future  love  or  hate  the  name  of  Fremont? 
Think  well,  my  friend.  Thou  art  making  history 
now." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  in  the  room.  Fre 
mont's  leathern  face  showed  no  effect  of  his 
pleader's  arguments.  His  wonderful,  piercing 
eyes  were  veiled  in  thought  as  he  stared  fixedly  at 
the  floor,  and  nervously  twisted  a  strand  of  his 
ragged  beard.  Then,  raising  his  head,  he  said 
grimly  and  almost  aggressively : 

"I  do  not  know  what  my  superior  officer,  the 
commodore,  will  say;  I  do  not  know  what  the 
war  department  will  say;  I  do  not  know,  Don 
Jesus,  what  your  historian  will  say.  But  I  do 
know  what  I  am  going  to  do." 

He  paused;  the  two  men  hung  breathless  on 
his  words. 

"Don  Jesus,  ride  at  once  to  the  Calif ornian 
camp  at  the  San  Pasqual  and  tell  them," — he 
smiled  quizzically  at  Pico — "tell  them  that  you 
are  still  alive,  and  that  they  need  have  no  fear 
of  me.  I  will  grant  them  an  honorable  peace." 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

AT   CAHUENGA    PASS 

T  IGHTS  burned  low,  and  men  spoke  in  subdued 
-*-'  whispers  in  the  ranch  house  of  the  San 
Pasqual. 

Don  Jose  Antonio  Arillo,  still  weak  and 
unnerved,  his  cheek  bandaged,  lay  on  a  couch, 
while  about  him  gathered  the  Dons,  awed  by  his 
recital  of  Vanuela's  treachery  and  attempt  at 
cold-blooded  murder. 

Mercurial  of  temperament  even  in  times  of  peace, 
their  impulsive  hearts  sank  as  they  listened  to  the 
revered  Arillo,  whose  sturdy  frame  and  well-poised 
mind  had  been  to  them  a  tower  of  strength  in  the 
more  promising  stages  of  the  war. 

Not  only  amazed  were  they,  but  filled  with 
superstitious  fear.  It  was  Vanuela,  they  concluded, 
and  not  the  mysterious  American  who  had  sought 
refuge  at  the  Devil's  Rock,  where,  as  their  terror- 
stricken  men  had  told  them,  the  Black  Matador 
had  appeared  to  save  the  fugitive  from  vengeance. 
The  accursed  specter's  coming  was  ever  portentous 
of  disaster  and  death. 

As  for  the  unknown  American,  they  assumed 
he  was  an  accomplice  of  Vanuela,  and  that  both 
were  now  well  on  their  way  to  the  pueblo.  The 
stranger's  identity  was  unknown  even  to  Arillo, 

26  401 


402  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

who  had  lost  consciousness  the  moment  before  the 
pistol  shot  rang  out  from  the  oak.  Hugo's 
statement  to  Arillo  that  Fremont  was  but  a  few 
miles  distant,  they  believed  to  be  the  boastful 
braggadocio  of  the  moment.  Fremont's  cavalry 
battalion  had  last  been  heard  of  many  miles  to 
the  north.  That  he  could  have  reached  the  neigh 
borhood  of  the  pueblo,  over  mountain  passes, 
amid  the  inclement  weather  of  the  last  week,  was 
incredible. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  the  snap  of  Don 
Augustin's  snuffbox. 

"For  Dios,"  he  muttered,  "it  is  no  marvel 
that  Vanuela  escaped.  The  devil  loves  the  son 
as  well  as  he  did  the  father." 

Open  burst  the  door,  and  a  Californian  rushed 
into  the  room.  His  fear-distorted  face  and  pant 
ing  words  brought  them  startled  to  their  feet. 

"God  and  his  angels!"  he  gasped,  faint  with 
terror.  "It  is  the  spirit  of  Don  Jesus  Pico  him 
self  !  I  saw  his  face — I  heard  his  voice!  He 
spoke  to  me  from  the  bushes  behind  the  hill — 
Don  Jesus,  who  has  been  dead  for  two  weeks." 

Instinctively  every  man  crossed  himself.  Horror 
upon  horror  was  being  thrust  upon  them.  Crushed 
by  disaster  and  defeat,  their  souls  darkened  by 
the  shadow  of  a  shameful  death,  dumbfounded 
by  the  discovery  of  Vanuela's  villainy,  awed  by 
the  reported  apparition  of  the  Black  Matador — 


AT  CAHUENGA  PASS  403 

to  them  it  seemed  but  the  fitting  culmination  of 
a  night  of  terror  that  the  spirit  of  the  dead  Don 
Jesus,  whom  all  knew  and  loved,  should  come  to 
them  with  a  message  of  warning.  Not  a  man 
doubted.  The  lips  of  several  were  moving  in  a 
silent  appeal  for  protection  against  the  powers  of 
the  unseen  world  with  which  the  night  seemed 
filled.  Their  brave  hearts,  for  which  the  deadly 
roar  of  battle  had  no  terror,  were  shaken  with  the 
crawling  fear  of  the  unknown. 

Don  Andreas  was  the  first  to  recover. 

"Dead  or  living,"  he  said  courageously,  "my 
cousin  Tortoi  will  not  harm  me.  I  myself  will 
go  to  meet  him,"  he  added,  as  he  took  his  sword 
belt  from  a  peg  on  the  wall. 

As  he  stepped  toward  the  open  door  an  uncertain 
figure  loomed  dark  against  the  square  of  starlit 
sky.  Wrapped  in  a  gray  serape,  the  face  shad 
owed  by  the  broad  brim  of  a  sombrero,  in  the 
wavering  light  of  the  flickering  candle  flames  the 
form  seemed  dim  and  spectral. 

Not  for  a  moment  did  Don  Andreas  hesitate. 
Meeting  the  newcomer  halfway,  he  extended  his 
hand  and  said  in  a  voice  vibrating  with  emotion : 

' '  Jesus — Tortoi — my  cousin ,  is  it  thou  ?  Dead 
or  living,  speak!  Hast  thou  a  message  for 
me?" 

Don  Jesus  glanced  slowly  around  the  shadowed 
room.  He  noted  the  awed  faces  of  the  Dor!s, 


404  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

their  expectant,  half-crouching  attitudes.  Re 
moving  his  sombrero,  he  cast  it  on  the  table  and 
smiled  at  them  reassuringly. 

"Surely  am  I  alive,  caballeros — very  much 
alive,  thanks  be  to  the  Holy  Mother.  Yet,  as  thou 
sayest,  Andreas,  it  is  so;  I  have  indeed  a  message 
for  thee,  cousin,  a  message  for  all  of  you." 

Around  him  they  pressed,  touching  his  face, 
feeling  of  his  garments,  grasping  his  hands  as  if 
to  assure  themselves  of  the  truth  of  his  words  and 
the  testimony  of  their  own  senses.  Don  Andreas, 
with  a  choking  sob  of  gladness,  enfolded  his 
cousin  in  his  arms  and  kissed  him  demonstratively. 

"Hearken,  friends,"  said  Don  Jesus,  when  they 
had  recovered  from  their  surprise.  "I  bring  you 
a  message  of  good  cheer.  Colonel  Fremont  with 
his  'Bears'  is  but  twenty  miles  away,  near  the 
Cahuenga  Pass.  He  it  was  who  saved  me  from 
death — pardoned  me  when  I  had  been  condemned 
to  death  by  a  court-martial  at  San  Luis  Obispo. 
He,  Fremont,  bids  me  say  to  you  that  he  is  ready 
to  grant  you  an  honorable  peace — a  peace 
which  shall  wipe  out  all  the  mistakes  and  errors 
of  the  past." 

As  the  first  rays  of  the  rising  sun  drives  the 
gloom  of  night  from  darkened  plain  and  forest, 
so  did  the  unexpected  words  of  Don  Jesus  bring 
sudden  joy  and  gladness  to  the  haggard  coun 
tenances  of  the  condemned  men.  For  a  space  no 


AT  CAHUENGA  PASS  405 

man  spoke;  they  were  gazing  at  him  almost 
incredulously. 

The  princely  head  of  Don  Jose  Antonio  had 
dropped  to  his  breast,  and  his  lips  were  trembling 
in  a  silent  prayer  of  thanksgiving.  Don  Augus- 
tin  sat  rigidly  erect,  his  fingers  toying  with  his 
snuffbox,  his  face  impassive  save  for  a  grim  look 
of  satisfaction.  Rico  was  laughing,  an  odd  little 
laugh  that  had  in  it  an  hysterical  note.  Cota's 
face  was  in  his  hands,  his  shoulders  moving  trem 
ulously.  De  la  Guerra,  as  he  leaned  back  against 
the  wall,  tapped  his  finger  ends  together,  and 
muttered:  "For  Dios — por  Dios — por  Dios!" 

Then  as  the  full  import  of  the  words  of  Don 
Jesus  penetrated  their  sorrow-laden  souls,  they 
broke  out  into  a  chorus  of  exclamations.  The 
mighty  strain  was  ended.  But  Flores  and  Garfias 
sat  unmoved ;  they  had  no  confidence  in  the  prom 
ises  of  Fremont,  and  little  desire  to  remain  in 
California. 

"No,"  said  the  commandant  stubbornly,  "I 
do  not  trust  the  word  of  Fremont  any  more  than 
that,  of  Gillie.  I  remember  the  cannon  at  San 
Pedro.  The  promises  of  such  land  pirates  are 
but  as  the  marks  on  the  sands  of  the  seashore. 
You  may  go,  if  you  will.  I  recall  the  old  proverb, 

'El  pez  que  busca  el  anzuelo 
Busca  su  duelo.' 1 

111  The  fish  that  seeks  the  hook  seeks  its  death." 


4o6  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

I  shall  start  for  Mexico  while  yet  there  is  time. 
But,"  he  continued,  "I  will  appoint  Don  Andreas 
here  commandant.  He  may  consummate  the  sur 
render  if  he  will.  On  that  shameful  paper  future 
generations  shall  never  read  the  name  of  Don 
Jos6  Maria  Flores.  Who  rides  with  me?  The 
road  is  open;  we  can  escape." 

"I  will,"  said  Garfias. 

As  they  passed  without  the  door  Don  Jos6 
Antonio  silently  drew  his  sword,  and  cast  away 
the  scabbard.  His  eyes  were  resting  on  Flores. 

"Pardon,  Don  Jos6  Maria.  There  is  a  score 
you  must  first  settle  with  me."  In  Arillo's 
voice  there  was  neither  anger  nor  bitterness,  but 
the  inflexible  sternness  of  an  upright  judge. 

Flores  started.  "The  boy,  then — is — dead?" 
he  queried. 

Don  Jos6  Antonio  nodded. 

Sighing  regretfully,  Don  Jos6  Maria  bared  his 
blade.  As  the  clang  of  steel  came  to  Don  Jesus, 
standing  a  few  feet  away,  he  rushed  to  them  and 
struck  up  their  weapons  with  his  own. 

"God  and  his  angels!"  he  cried.  "What  means 
this?" 

Briefly  Arillo  told  him  the  story  of  Josh's  mis 
sion  and  added : 

"And  now  the  boy  is  dead — shot  as  a  spy.  He 
— he,"  the  Don  could  not  bring  himself  to  utter 
Vanuela's  name,  "told  me  of  it  last  night." 


AT  CAHUENGA  PASS  407 

"He  lied,  the  accursed  son  of  Satan,  he  lied!" 
cried  Don  Jesus.  "The  boy  lives,  and  is  free — in 
the  camp  of  Fremont.  I  spoke  with  him  but 
yesterday." 

Flores,  greatly  relieved,  and  Arillo,  gladness 
showing  in  his  face,  gravely  clasped  hands. 

Before  the  eastern  sky  was  white  with  coming 
day,  Flores,  Garfias,  and  a  dozen  others  of  the 
Californian  officers  were  galloping  eastward  to 
ward  the  San  Gorgonio  Pass,  en  route  to  Mexico, 
while  Don  Andreas  Pico,  Arillo,  Rico,  Cota, 
De  la  Guerra,  and  Alvaro,  accompanied  by  Don 
Jesus,  were  hurrying  westward  toward  the 
Cahuenga  Pass. 

It  was  broad  daylight  ere  they  halted  and  dis 
mounted  at  the  door  of  the  vaquero's  hut  where 
Fremont  had  established  temporary  headquarters. 
Their  mien  was  a  strange  mixture  of  the  anxiety 
of  the  moment  and  the  habitual  dignity  of  their 
race  as  they  filed  silently  into  the  bare  little  room 
where  sat  Colonel  Fremont  and  Lieutenant  John 
Carroll.  At  their  entrance  the  Pathfinder  rose  to 
his  feet  and  greeted  them  with  a  cordiality  that 
brought  smiles  of  relief  to  their  worried  faces. 

"We  feel,"  said  Don  Andreas,  after  he  had 
told  of  the  flight  of  Flores  and  his  own  appoint 
ment  as  commandant,  "that  we  have  done  all 
that  men  can  do."  There  was  sad  resignation 
but  no  humiliation  in  his  bearing. 


4o8  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"It  is  both  a  pleasure  and  a  duty  to  grant 
generous  terms  to  men  who  have  fought  so  bravely 
for  their  native  land,"  Fremont  responded  gravely. 
Silently  the  Dons  bowed  in  recognition  of  his 
complimentary  words. 

Pacing  in  his  quick,  nervous  way  up  and  down 
the  little  room,  Fremont  dictated  the  terms  of  the 
treaty,  turning  every  now  and  then  to  the  Dons, 
\vho  nodded  their  consent  at  the  end  of  each 
clause. 

The  Californians  were  to  surrender  all  their 
public  arms  and  ammunition;  they  were  to  be 
permitted  to  depart  peacefully  to  their  homes; 
each  should  have  the  privilege  of  becoming  a 
citizen  of  the  United  States  or  of  retaining  his 
Mexican  citizenship. 

He  paused  abruptly;  for  a  space  his  eyes  sought 
the  floor.  The  Dons  moved  uneasily;  no  word 
had  been  said  of  the  broken  paroles.  They  had 
trusted  the  American ;  they  were  here  in  his  armed 
camp,  in  his  power.  Could  it  be  possible,  that, 
as  Flores  had  warned  them,  they  had  but  been 
lured  to  their  death?  Had  Don  Jesus  himself 
been  deceived?  Was  it  not  this  very  man,  who 
now  held  their  lives  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand — 
was  it  not  at  his  orders  that  Scout  Carson  and 
his  Indians  had  shot  to  death  the  unarmed 
Berryessa  boys?  Their  paling  faces  showed  they 
feared  the  worst. 


AT  CAHUENGA  PASS  409 

Fremont's  brilliant  eyes  again  swept  their 
anxious  countenances.  His  whimsical  smile  trem 
bled  behind  his  beard  as  he  turned  to  Carroll,  who, 
seated  at  the  table  was  writing  the  document  at 
his  dictation. 

1 '  Write  this,  lieutenant, ' '  he  said :  ' "  The  com 
missioners,  on  the  part  of  Lieutenant  Colonel 
Fremont,  agree  and  bind  themselves,  on  the  ful 
fillment  of  the  other  articles  by  the  Calif ornians, 
that  the  latter  shall  be  guaranteed  liberty  and 
protection,  whether  on  parole  or  otherwise." 

"And  this,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  pause: 
'"All  officers  of  the  Californian  army,  whether 
citizens,  foreigners,  or  others,  shall  receive  the 
protection  guaranteed  by  this  article." 

Slowly  John  Carroll  traced  the  words.  His 
hand  trembled,  and  the  letters  forming  beneath 
his  pen  quivered  through  the  mist  that  gathered 
before  his  sight.  Don  Jos6  Antonio's  eyes  were 
gazing  at  him,  the  recorder  of  his  life  warrant. 

At  last,  at  last,  the  nightmare  of  months  was 
gone,  never  to  return.  As  the  lieutenant  drew 
the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  brow  to  wipe  away 
the  telltale  evidences  of  his  emotion,  the  colonel 
gazed  at  him,  and  smiled  knowingly. 

With  the  somber  mien  and  awed  solemnity  of 
men  who  realized  that  their  native  land,  the  fairest 
on  earth,  was  in  that  moment  passing  from  the 
hands  of  their  race  to  the  rule  of  the  stranger, 


4io  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

that  they  were  participants  in  an  event  that 
would  effect  the  lives  of  millions  yet  unborn,  the 
Dons  stepped  forward  one  by  one  and  gravely 
affixed  their  signatures  to  the  document.  As  the 
last  man  laid  down  the  pen,  the  impressive  silence 
gave  way  to  a  hum  of  felicitations  on  the  advent 
of  peace. 

The  fate  of  California  was  decided. 

"May  the  good  God  give  your  people  the 
wisdom  to  rule  wisely  and  well,"  said  Don  Jose 
Antonio,  as  he  pressed  Fremont's  hand. 

"Amen,  I  say  to  that,  with  all  my  heart," 
returned  the  American. 

Without  either  having  spoken,  Don  Jose  An 
tonio  Arillo  and  Lieutenant  John  Carroll  together 
sought  the  glory  of  the  sunlit  morning.  Around 
them  the  land,  from  which  the  scourge  of  war  had 
been  lifted,  smiled  in  all  its  wondrous  beauty  of  far- 
flung  mesa  and  azure  mountains.  Beneath  a  sky 
of  arching  blue,  the  larks  were  rising  from  the 
lush  green  meadows,  trilling  their  cheerful  song 
in  sympathy  with  the  joy -filled  hearts  of  the  two 
men,  as  with  clasped  hands  they  stood  gazing 
into  each  other's  eyes.  For  a  space  neither  spoke; 
it  was  a  moment  too  sacred  for  words. 

Arillo  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"It  was  thou,  Juan," — it  was  the  first  time  he 
had  ever  used  the  familiar  form  of  address  or 
called  the  lieutenant  by  his  first  name,  —  "it  was 


AT  CAHUENGA  PASS  41 1 

thou  who  fired  the  shot  at  the  oak  last  night.  Don 
Jesus  has  told  me  all." 

Carroll  told  him  the  tale — his  fight  with  Vanuela, 
the  arrival  of  the  horsemen,  the  wild  dash  up  the 
arroyo,  his  narrow  escape  at  the  Devil's  Rock,  the 
appearance  of  the  Black  Matador,  and  the  death 
of  Palera. 

"Servolo — Servolo — was — the  Black  Matador 
— Servolo  dead.  Jesus  Maria!"  exclaimed  the 
Don,  aghast.  "Poor  lad — poor  lad!  All  Cali 
fornia  loved  him." 

As  the  lieutenant,  continuing,  told  of  his  own 
wild  ride  through  the  night,  of  his  horse  dropping 
dead  of  exhaustion  at  Fremont's  door,  the  scene 
in  the  Pathfinder's  presence,  the  discomfiture  and 
imprisonment  of  Vanuela,  there  was  open  admira 
tion  in  Arillo's  full-orbed  gaze.  Laying  his  hand 
on  Carroll's  shoulder,  he  said  reverently: 

"Ah,  my  friend  Juan,  God  is  good.  Above  all 
He  is  good  to  me — in  giving  to  me  such  a  son," 
he  added  meaningly. 

Hurrying  footsteps  behind  them  caused  the  Don 
to  turn  his  head.  A  young  man,  breathless  and 
excited,  was  running  toward  them.  It  was  Jose. 
Lieutenant  Somers  strode  along  a  few  feet  behind 
him. 

The  boy  threw  himself  upon  Arillo,  his  face 
radiant  with  joy. 

"Father,  father,"  he  panted,    "thou  art  well 


4i2  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

and  safe,  and  I — I — I  have  found  my  father — my 
real  father.  This,"  he  babbled,  turning  to  Somers, 
"this  is  my  father — Don  Jos6  Antonio  Arillo." 
Then  as  his  glad  gaze  turned  again  to  Somers, 
"This  is  my  father." 

Half  hysterical  with  happiness,  half  amused  by 
the  confusion  of  his  own  disjointed  words,  the 
boy  threw  back  his  ruddy  head  and  laughed  in  the 
sheer  exuberance  of  happiness. 

The  sound  of  creaking  wheels  and  shuffling 
hoofs  came  to  them  from  up  the  pass.  The  Cali- 
fornians  were  marching  into  camp.  With  down 
cast  mien  and  averted  eyes,  the  column  of  horse 
moved  slowly  on  until  in  front  of  the  colonel's 
headquarters.  Lieutenant  McLane,  Fremont's 
aide,  stepped  forward  to  receive  the  arms. 

"Two  cannon,"  he  said,  as  he  made  a  note  on 
a  slip  of  paper  in  his  hand. 

"Yes,  senor,"  drawled  Don  Andreas,  who, 
seated  on  his  horse,  was  assisting  in  the  details 
of  the  surrender.  "That,  senor,  is  the  cannon 
your  General  Kearney  presented  us  with  at  San 
Pascual.  He  was  as  loath  to  part  with  it  then  as 
we  are  now." 

McLane  grinned  good  naturedly. 

"Now  your  powder,   Don  Andreas." 

A  Californian  stepped  his  horse  out  of  the 
ranks  and  handed  to  the  American  a  small  bundle 
tied  up  in  a  red  handkerchief. 


AT  CAHUENGA  PASS  413 

"The  powder,  serior." 

"Lord,  is  that  all  you  have?"  McLane  asked, 
as  opening  it  he  stared  at  the  few  pounds  of  gray 
ish  dust. 

"It  is,  sefior,"  responded  Don  Andreas,  gro 
tesquely.  ' '  We  used  all  but  that  at  the  battle  on 
the  mesa.  It  is  perfectly  good  powder,  I  assure 
you,  sefior,  though  somewhat  deliberate  in  going 
off,  but  it  makes  a  loud,  beautiful  noise  and  much 
nice  white  smoke." 

McLane,  glancing  up,  caught  sight  of  the  green 
and  red  of  the  Mexican  standard,  no  longer 
proudly  afloat,  but  rolled  on  its  staff  and  lying 
across  the  pommel  of  Cota's  saddle. 

"Your  colors,  sefior,"  he  said  courteously  but 
firmly. 

Beneath  his  bowed  head,  Cota's  tears  were 
falling  fast  as  he  gazed  unheeding  on  the  flag — 
the  flag  he  had  carried  through  all  these  weary 
months,  the  flag  that  had  seen  the  backs  of 
Mervine's  men  at  Dominguez,  that  had  waved 
above  the  blood-soaked  field  of  San  Pascual,  and 
the  wild  charges  at  the  river  and  the  mesa, — the 
flag  that  must  now  pass  to  the  hands  of  the 
conquerors. 

Slowly  Francisco  raised  the  staff  from  his 
pommel,  while  his  shoulders  shook  convulsively. 
Then  before  he  handed  it  to  the  American,  who 
stood  waiting  patiently,  his  own  eyes  moist  with 

27 


4i4  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

sympathy,  Cota  lifted  a  corner  of  its  silken  folds  and 
pressed  it  to  his  lips  with  almost  religious  reverence. 
The  curtain  had  fallen  on  the  last  scene  in  the 
conquest  of  California. 

Farther  up  the  pass,  from  behind  the  flap  of  a 
tent,  Hugo  Vanuela  gazed  down  the  roadway. 
A  few  feet  away  stood  a  guard,  leaning  on  his 
rifle.  Hugo  had  been  noting  the  signs  of  sup 
pressed  excitement  in  the  camp. 

"Have  the  Calif ornians  surrendered?"  he  asked 
"the  American. 

"Yes,  senor,"  returned  the  American.  It  was 
the  frontiersman  who  had  witnessed  the  scene  in 
Fremont's  presence,  and  his  dislike  of  Vanuela 
was  plainly  apparent  in  his  thin,  keen  face. 

"And  there  ain't  going  to  be  no  one  hanged, 
either,  senor.  The  colonel  just  up  and  pardoned 
them  all,"  he  added,  as  he  gazed  into  Vanuela's 
clouded  countenance. 

"But  Commodore  Stockton — he — " 

The  frontiersman  stopped  in  the  middle  of  his 
short  beat  in  front  of  the  prisoner's  tent  and  stared 
at  him  contemptuously. 

"Stockton — hell!"  he  snorted  truculently. 
"The  colonel  has  a  hundred  more  men  than  Stock 
ton.  We'd  chase  Stockton  and  his  fool  sailors 
into  the  sea,  if  Fremont  gave  the  word.  You 
don't  seem  to  like  the  news  none,  senor." 


AT  CAHUENGA  PASS  415 

There  was  a  tinge  of  malice  in  his  last  words. 

Up  the  winding  roadway  approached  a  happy 
group.  Don  Jose  Antonio,  his  hand  in  that  of 
Jose,  was  listening  gravely  to  the  boy's  flowing 
talk.  Behind  them  walked  Carroll  and  Somers. 
All  unconscious  of  the  gleaming  eyes  bent  upon 
them  from  behind  the  tent  flap,  they  halted  a  few 
yards  away. 

To  Vanuela's  ears  came  the  ringing  laugh  of 
Jose.  He  saw  the  happiness  in  the  face  of 
Arillo,  the  glad,  triumphant  bearing  of  Carroll. 

"Don  Jesus  alive,"  he  muttered  bitterly,  "the 
young  fool  Jose  alive, — Arillo  free  and  smiling." 

The  son  of  Leo  was  biting  his  bruised  lips  till 
the  blood,  unnoticed,  trickled  slowly  down  his 
chin.  In  his  eyes  was  a  fiendish  glare.  His  brow 
corrugated,  and  the  lines  of  his  face  deepened 
into  an  expression  of  utter  despair. 

To  this  had  come  all  his  planning  of  months! 
Arillo  was  free.  He,  himself,  was  a  prisoner, 
facing  an  investigation  of  his  connection  with 
MacNamara, — an  investigation  that  could  have 
but  one  result,  a  trial  for  the  murder  of  the  Eng 
lishman. 

Vanuela  sank  upon  a  roll  of  blankets  and  hid 
his  head  in  both  his  hands.  His  soul  was  shaken, 
not  with  fear  or  remorse,  for  of  either  the  man 
was  incapable,  but  with  the  bitterness  of  crush 
ing  disappointment.  Yet  in  the  frontiersman's 


4i6  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

contemptuous  reference  to  Stockton  was  a  ray  of 
hope.  It  must  be  that  Fremont  had  decided  to 
defy  Stockton.  His  ignoring  the  commodore's 
orders  implied  as  much.  There  would  probably 
be  civil  war  between  them,  as  there  had  been  in 
the  past  between  the  rulers  of  California.  That 
would  indeed  be  his  opportunity.  Stockton 
would  welcome  his  aid,  and  it  would  be  strange 
indeed  if,  during  the  turmoil  of  civil  strife,  he 
could  not  find  an  opportunity  to  wreak  his  long- 
sought  vengeance  on  Arillo. 

Quickly  he  mapped  out  a  course  of  action.  He 
must  lose  no  opportunity  to  escape.  That  ac 
complished,  he  would  seek  Stockton  and  join  his 
forces.  If  he  met  death  in  the  effort  to  win  free 
dom,  so  be  it.  Even  that  was  better  than  his 
own  humiliation  before  the  genie  de  razon. 

"The  colonel  wishes  the  prisoner  brought  to 
his  headquarters,"  called  one  of  Fremont's  staff 
as  he  cantered  past. 

As  Vanuela,  accompanied  by  the  frontiersman, 
walked  down  the  slope  toward  the  roadway  he 
shot  a  covert  sidewise  glance  at  the  long  hunting 
knife  in  the  guide's  belt,  almost  within  reach  of 
his  hand.  He  smiled  grimly  and  his  eye  bright 
ened  as  he  noted,  a  few  yards  down  the  trail,  a 
group  of  untethered  horses. 

The  two  strode  on.  Hardly  twenty  feet  away 
were  they  when  Arillo's  happy  laugh  rang  out. 


AT  CAHUENGA  PASS  417 

As  it  reached  Hugo's  ears,  his  eyes  took  on  the 
dangerous  glitter  of  a  wild  beast  at  bay,  and  his 
face  convulsed  in  insensate  fury.  In  a  twinkling 
he  had  forgotten  his  hope  of  escape ;  he  saw  before 
him  only  the  enemy  of  a  lifetime,  laughing  in 
happy  abandon. 

With  lightning-like  quickness,  Vanuela  snatched 
the  knife  from  the  belt  of  the  guard,  broke  away 
from  him,  and  rushed  toward  Arillo.  For  an 
instant  the  frontiersman  hesitated,  and  then  his 
rifle  snapped  like  the  crack  of  a  whip.  Don  Jose 
Antonio,  startled  by  the  report,  turned  his  head 
to  see  Vanuela  tumbling  forward  on  his  face. 

Only  a  moment,  however,  and  Hugo  was  again 
on  his  feet,  struggling  and  staggering  toward 
Arillo,  the  blood  gushing  from  his  neck,  the  up 
lifted  blade  in  his  hand,  his  face  contorted  in 
maniacal  fury.  More  quickly  than  Carroll,  who 
had  drawn  his  sword,  could  spring  forward  to 
meet  him,  another  rifle  spoke  from  up  the  pass. 
Vanuela  reeled,  lurched  another  step,  and  as  the 
knife  dropped  from  his  nerveless  hand  he  col 
lapsed  in  a  crumpled  heap  at  the  feet  of  Don 
Jose  Antonio. 

Jim  Marshall,  his  smoking  rifle  in  his  hand, 
came  whirling  down  the  trail. 

"Jehosophat,  I  sure  got  him  across  the  sights 
after  all!"  he  cried,  as  he  gazed  down  from  his 
saddle  at  the  bleeding  form  on  the  ground. 

27 


4i8  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

Even  with  the  cold  hand  of  death  heavy  upon 
him,  the  indomitable  spirit  of  the  son  of  Leo  was 
manifest.  Raising  himself  slightly  on  one  hand, 
his  clouding  eyes  filled  with  unconquerable  hate 
fixed  full  on  Arillo,  he  gasped  out  a  foul  oath. 
Then  his  face  contorted,  his  body  writhed,  and 
he  sank  prone  on  the  grass. 

The  feud  was  ended.     Hugo  Vanuela  was  dead. 

Marshall  had  not  dismounted.  He  sat  in  his 
saddle,  looking  down  at  the  motionless  form  of 
Vanuela. 

"I  never  did  count  shootin'  Indians  as  regular 
killin',  nohow,"  was  his  muttered  comment. 

"Good-by,  lieutenant,"  he  said,  as  he  reached 
down  his  hand  to  Carroll.  "Must  be  goin' — 
can't  stop — carryin'  papers  for  the  commodore 
to  Monterey." 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  a  quizzical  expres 
sion  in  the  look  he  bent  on  the  lieutenant.  Then 
with  a  farewell  wave  of  his  hand,  he  galloped  away 
across  the  plains. 

At  the  sound  of  firing,  armed  men  came  rushing 
from  all  parts  of  the  camp.  Fremont  himself, 
hatless  and  excited,  came  galloping  up.  He  gazed 
for  a  moment  at  the  twisted  figure  on  the  blood 
stained  grass. 

"It  is  as  well,"  he  muttered,  as  he  turned  away. 

Arillo  and  his  friends,  dazed  by  the  sudden 
snuffing  out  of  a  human  life,  stood  in  awed 


AT  CAHUENGA  PASS  419 

silence  as  one  of  the  Americans  covered  the  body 
with  a  blanket. 

"Let  us  go,"  said  Carroll.  "Our  horses  are 
impatient  to  carry  us  to  the  weeping  women  in 
the  pueblo  who  love — you,"  he  added  cautiously. 

But  in  the  eyes  of  Don  Jose  Antonio  Arillo  was 
a  far-away  light,  such  as  shone  eighteen  centuries 
before  in  the  eyes  of  a  dying  Jew  when,  forgiving 
his  tormenters,  he  taught  a  new  philosophy  to 
mankind.  Brave  in  war,  stern  in  anger,  proud 
of  race,  yet  ever  kindly  of  heart,  the  Don  lingered 
over  the  blanket-covered  corpse  of  Hugo  Vanuela. 

"Ay  de  ti,"  he  sighed,  "he  died  unshriven." 

He  removed  his  sombrero  and  looked  down  at 
the  stiffening  form  of  his  enemy. 

"Dios  de  mi  alma,"  he  murmured,  as  he  lifted 
a  corner  of  the  blanket,  "how  like  to  his  father 
he  looks  as  he  lies  there.  Ah,  Juan,  life  and  death 
are  alike  strange,  mysterious,  and  incomprehen 
sible.  But  good  indeed  it  is  to  know  that  there 
is  a  God  who  is  all- wise  and  all-merciful,  even, 
we  may  hope,  to  such  as  he." 

He  fumbled  for  a  moment  in  his  garments. 
Then  laying  his  sombrero  on  the  grass,  he  dropped 
to  his  knees  and  crossed  himself.  His  lips  moved 
as  the  beads  slipped  through  his  fingers.  Carroll 
stared  at  him  in  awed  wonder. 

Don  Jose"  Antonio  Arillo  was  praying  for  the 
mercy  of  God  on  the  soul  of  Hugo  Vanuela. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI 

THE   PASSING   OP   THE    SHADOW 

"Have  mercy  on  them, 
Have  mercy  on  them, 
Have  mercy  on  them." 

'TEARFULLY  and  tragically,  and  with  funereal 
-*•  monotony,  the  wives  and  sisters,  the  mothers 
and  cousins,  the  kinsfolk  and  friends  of  the  Dons, 
kneeling  within  the  closely  shuttered  home  of  the 
Arillos,  gave  in  doleful  cadence  their  responses  to 
the  litany  for  the  dead. 

Heroic  in  her  grief,  Sefiora  Arillo  read  from  the 
much-thumbed  prayer  book  by  the  light  of  a 
wavering  candle  flame,  and  the  kneeling  assem 
blage  in  response  sent  up  their  repeated  suppli 
cations  for  the  souls  of  the  departed  men. 

According  to  a  rumor  which  several  hours  before 
had  reached  the  pueblo,  the  Dons  of  the  army  of 
Flores,  captured  by  Fremont,  tried  by  a  drum 
head  court-martial,  and  summarily  executed, 
had  paid  the  penalty  for  their  broken  paroles. 
The  circumstantial  and  apparently  authentic 
report  had  originated  with  an  Indian  peon 
who,  the  night  before,  while  searching  for  his 
horses,  had  stumbled  on  the  American  camp, 
where  he  had  been  detained  as  a  suspicious 

420 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SHADOW    421 

person.  He  had  been  released  in  the  morning, 
but  not  before  he  had  seen  at  a  distance  the  fam 
iliar  figures  of  the  Dons,  and  later  had  heard  the 
shots  that  ended  the  existence  of  Hugo  Vanuela. 
A  mischievously  mendacious  frontiersman  who 
assured  him  in  very  bad  Spanish  that  they  were 
"shooting  a  dozen  prisoners  over  there,"  completed 
the  delusion.  In  the  pueblo  his  tale,  chiming  as 
it  did  with  their  fears  for  the  last  two  months, 
met  with  instant  credence.  Manuel  and  Mariano 
had  already  set  out  for  the  Cahuenga  Pass  with 
a  carreta  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  home  the 
bodies. 

Dulled  by  a  grief  too  great  for  comprehension, 
Loreto  Arillo's  eyes  looked  blankly  into  the  gloom 
before  her.  Her  lips  answered  mechanically  in 
unison  with  the  others,  but  there  was  no  fervor 
in  her  devotion,  and  not  even  despair  marked 
her  low  responses.  Delfina  sobbed  between  her 
hysterical  words,  and  the  others  mingled  lamen 
tations  with  their  prayers.  But  now  was  the 
time  when  strength  must  be  shown  by  the  head 
of  the  house  of  Arillo,  and  each  pious  ejaculation 
of  the  senora  rang  clear  and  firm,  encouraging 
and  sustaining  the  others 

The  world  had  done  its  worst.  The  only 
solace  lay  now  in  the  hope  that  a  benign  Prov 
idence  might  forgive  the  earthly  transgressions 
of  the  departed  husbands  and  fathers,  and  that 


422  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

in  another  life  all  might  be  reunited.  For  the 
shameful  felon's  death,  naught  on  earth  could 
ever  atone.  The  tarnished  honor,  the  crumbled 
pride,  the  beggared  homes,  could  know  no  remedy. 
The  hangman's  noose  was  the  final  chapter  in 
their  book  of  horrors.  For  the  aged,  perhaps, 
the  hope  of  another  life  might  beckon,  but  .for 
Loreto  Arillo  the  gray  walls  of  the  cloister  already 
loomed  with  alluring  promise  of  peace  after  the 
hurts  of  time.  Again  the  voice  of  Senora  Arillo, 
vibrant  with  sublime  faith  and  hope,  inspiring 
devotion,  enunciated:  "Jesus,  Infinite  Goodness." 

Before  the  lips  of  the  kneeling  women  could 
frame  the  response,  "Have  mercy  on  them,"  a 
soft  masculine  voice  replied,  "Has  given  you 
back  your  loved  ones." 

In  the  narrow  shaft  of  light  from  the  silently 
opened  door  stood  Don  Jos6  Antonio,  the  dust 
of  the  road  on  his  beard,  his  garments  worn  and 
stained,  but  the  light  of  love  and  happiness 
and  the  endearing  fatherly  smile  playing  about 
his  lips. 

The  reaction  was  too  great.  Senora  Arillo, 
whose  strength  had  already  been  taxed  beyond 
endurance,  sank  fainting  to  the  floor,  while  the 
others  rushed  out  to  meet  the  returning  cavalcade, 
which  through  the  open  door  could  be  seen  enter 
ing  the  plaza.  On  the  carreta  meant  to  carry  the 
dishonored  corpses  of  the  Dons  rode  Manuel, 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SHADOW    423 

gayly  waving  his  cap,  his  arm  about  the  ruddy- 
haired  Jose.  Around  the  glad-faced  men  as  they 
dropped  from  their  horses  pressed  their  wives  and 
relatives,  their  faces  wet  with  joyful  tears,  their 
lips  uttering  fond  ejaculations. 

Don  Jose  Antonio  bore  his  fainting  wife  to 
a  couch,  while  Loreto  and  Delfina  alternately 
administered  restoratives  and  caressed  the  father 
so  miraculously  restored.  In  the  excitement  no 
one  noticed  the  American  officer  who  stood  within 
the  doorway  of  the  Arillo  home. 

As  Delfina  rushed  away  to  Jose  and  Manuel, 
Loreto  Arillo's  eyes  turned  toward  the  open  door 
and  the  excited  group  in  the  plaza..  Then  they 
fell  full  upon  the  tanned  and  haggard  features  of 
Lieutenant  Jack  Carroll.  As  her  glance  met  his, 
she  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands  as  though  the 
sight  of  the  hated  blue  uniform  had  been  a  blow 
in  the  face. 

To  her  mind  there  was  but  one  explanation  of 
his  presence.  Her  father,  though  alive,  was  still 
a  prisoner,  and  the  man  whose  hungry  eyes  were 
gazing  at  her  was  his  guard.  Over  Don  Jos6 
Antonio  still  hung  the  shadow  of  a  disgraceful 
public  trial,  and  the  ultimate  terror  of  Stockton's 
threat.  Why  else  was  her  father  accompanied 
by  an  armed  man  who  had  thrust  himself  into 
the  privacy  of  their  own  home?  In  a  few  mo 
ments  they  would  take  him  away  again. 


424  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

"Loreto!"  Carroll  stepped  forward  with  out 
stretched  hands,  a  glad,  expectant  look  on  his 
face. 

The  girl  raised  her  head  with  a  proud  lift, 
strangely  like  her  father's.  Though  the  dull 
ache  was  again  tugging  at  her  heartstrings,  her 
jet-black  eyes  as  they  met  his  were  cold  and  hard. 
To  her  rescue  came  the  courtesy  of  her  race.  The 
man  before  her  was  no  stranger;  he  had  broken 
bread  with  them;  he  had  once  possessed  her  heart. 
Though  one  of  their  hated  conquerors,  he  was 
yet  beneath  the  roof  of  the  Arillos. 

"Seftor,  our  house  is  yours,"  she  said  gravely, 
motioning  him  to  be  seated;  then,  courtesying, 
she  turned  away.  The  senora  too,  recovering 
from  her  swoon,  interpreted  Carroll's  presence 
in  the  same  way,  but  more  diplomatically  wel 
comed  the  enemy  within  her  gates. 

"You  will  leave  him  with  us  to-night,  Senor 
Lieutenant?"  she  begged. 

But  John  Carroll  did  not  hear  her.  He  only 
knew  that  the  woman  whose  entrancing  beauty 
and  once-won  heart  had  been  his  last  thought 
when  he  looked  into  the  leveled  muskets  of 
Ballestos'  men,  the  woman  for  whom  Servolo 
Palera  died  as  a  zealot  dies,  the  woman  for  the 
sake  of  whose  happiness  he  himself  had  been 
hunted  like  a  wild  beast  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  had  welcomed  him  with  a  cold  civility 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SHADOW    425 

to  which  even  scorn  and  passionate  hatred 
would  have  been  preferable.  Beneath  its  tan, 
his  face  went  deathly  white. 

But  Don  Jose  Antonio,  with  that  quick,  kind 
mind  which  made  him  the  idol  of  his  kin  and  his 
people,  had  seen  it  all.  %  '^sfj**'^. 

For  once  heedless  of  the  proprieties,  in  his 
great  stron?  arms  he  gathered  them,  the  dust- 
stained  soldier  and  the  flower-like  girl,  and  crushed 
them  into  each  other's  arms. 

"Thank  Juan  Carroll  that  I  am  here,"  he  said, 
his  voice  vibrant  with  exultant  emotion,  "that 
I  am  alive, — that  your  sorrow  is  turned  to  joy, — 
that  I  return  to  enjoy  an  honorable  peace  instead 
of  dying  a  felon's  death.  Thank  him  that  the 
house  of  Arillo  will  live  and  prosper,  and  that  our 
enemy  has  perished,  and  thank  God,  my  daughter, 
that  such  a  man  as  he  has  enshrined  thee  in  his 
heart." 

His  words  seemed  to  cover  all  details,  as  if 
with  some  God-like  shaft  he  shattered  every  un 
happy  memory  and  blotted  out  the  horrors  of  the 
past.  Explanation  seemed  unnecessary. 

As  he  and  Sefiora  Arillo  passed  out  the  door 
to  join  the  joyfully  tumultuous  throng  in  the 
plaza,  John  Carroll  stood  with  the  woman  of  his 
dreams  weeping  but  happy  in  his  encircling  arms. 

Past  the  half-open  casement  where  Jack  Carroll 
and  his  betrothed  stood,  marched  the  frontiersmen 


426  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

of  Fremont.  The  story  of  the  Pathfinder's  gen 
erosity  to  the  Dons  was  known  now  to  all  the 
pueblo.  As  the  men  of  his  command  walked 
their  horses  slowly  through  the  crowded  plaza, 
they  saw  about  them  none  but  smiling  faces,  far 
different  from  the  scowls  and  muttered  curses 
that  had  greeted  Stockton's  sailors  only  two  days 
before.  The  excitement  of  the  assembled  crowd 
manifested  itself  in  a  low  joyous  hum,  growing 
ever  louder  and  louder. 

"Boom." 

As  the  echoes  of  the  mellow,  mournful  peal  from 
the  bell  tower  of  the  old  Plaza.  Church  died  away, 
every  Calif ornian  bowed  his  head,  and  stood 
reverently  silent. 

"Boom." 

Another  procession  was  slowly  entering  the 
plaza.  Fremont's  men,  at  the  word  of  command, 
reined  their  horses  and  sat  with  heads  uncovered, 
awaiting  its  arrival. 

"Boom." 

The  bells  of  the  church  of  Our  Lady,  Queen  of 
the  Angels  were  tolling — tolling  for  Servolo 
Palera.  Slowly  the  funeral  cortege  halted,  and 
lifting  the  litter  on  their  shoulders,  the  mourners 
bore  him  toward  the  open  door  of  the  edifice. 

The  maker  of  sweet  songs  was  dead,  the  dreamer 
of  glorious  dreams  was  no  more.  For  the  last 
time  Servolo  Palera  was  entering  the  sanctuary  of 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SHADOW    427 

his  fathers,  to  lie  in  state  in  the  city  he  had  loved 
so  well. 

Sorrowing,  the  companions  of  his  boyhood, 
his  comrades  of  the  camp  and  field,  the  people  of 
the  pueblo  who  had  joyed  in  the  music  of  his 
voice,  whose  souls  he  had  stirred  with  his  songs 
and  melodies  till  their  love  unbounded  had  gone 
out  to  the  maker  thereof,  did  silent  homage  to  the 
singer  whose  voice  they  would  hear  no  more. 

Grief-laden,  they  gazed  for  the  last  time  on 
his  peaceful  face  as  they  filed  past  his  bier,  piled 
high  with  flowers.  Strong  men  and  tender 
hearted  women  sobbed  aloud  at  the  sight  of  the 
thing  of  clay,  once  quickened  by  the  soul  of  the 
soldier,  the  patriot,  and  the  poet. 

And  ever  above,  from  the  old  gray  tower, 
came  the  mournful  booming  cadence  of  the  tolling 
bell. 

Within  the  house  of  Arillo,  Loreto,  her  face 
in  her  hands,  leaned  against  her  lover  and  sobbed 
while  Carroll's  strong  arm  supported  her.  It 
was  her  last,  her  heartfelt  tribute  to  the  memory 
of  the  man  in  whose  love  for  her  there  had  been 
no  touch  of  earth,  a  love  less  human  than  divine — 
the  love  of  a  man  complete,  unselfish,  unbounded 
in  its  final  sacrifice. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  room  Jos6  sat  on  the  floor 
at  the  feet  of  Delfina,  his  upturned  eyes  ever  on 
her  darkly  radiant  face. 


428  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

'Thou  wilt  have  me  now,  Delfina,  even 
without  the  shoulder  straps,  now  that  I  have  a 
name?"  he  queried,  half  mischievously. 

The  girl's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  as  she 
brushed  back  the  drooping  lock  of  hair  from  his 
brow  she  said,  "Jose,  Jose,  taunt  me  not  with  my 
unkindness.  Thou  foolish  lad,  I  loved  thee 
always,  and  never  more  than  when  I  flouted 
thee." 

Suddenly  she  started,  and  sat  erect.  Clasping 
her  hands  before  her,  she  ejaculated,  "Holy 
Mother,  forgive  me!  I  had  forgotten." 

Springing  to  her  feet,  she  hurried  away  toward 
the  chapel  of  the  Arillo  home.  Jos£,  amazed, 
stared  after  her  uncomprehendingly. 

John  Carroll,  glancing  at  the  boy,  smiled  at 
his  clouded  countenance,  but  even  as  he  smiled 
his  own  face  filled  with  deep  anxiety. 

Prosaic  but  sufficient  was  the  cause  of  his 
uneasiness.  The  lieutenant  was  penniless.  Not 
for  six  months  had  the  men  of  Stockton's  or 
Fremont's  commands  received  a  cent  of  pay.  The 
voyage  of  the  specie-laden  ship  around  Cape 
Horn  had  been,  it  was  believed,  delayed  by 
baffling  winds.  An  embarrassing  predicament 
it  was  at  any  time  for  a  man  as  proud  as  John 
Carroll,  but  doubly  so  now  that  the  house  of 
Arillo  would  soon  be  abustle  with  preparations 
for  the  coming  wedding.  Well  John  Carroll 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  SHADOW    429 

knew  the  unwritten  law  of  the  land  and  the 
people, — that  the  bridegroom  should  present 
to  the  bride  a  chest  filled  to  overflowing  with 
raiment  rich  and  diversified,  a  custom  any  neglect 
of  which  would  be  construed  as  slighting  careless 
ness  on  the  part  of  the  groom.  In  all  the  pueblo 
there  was  but  one  man  of  whom  he  could  have 
asked  a  loan,  Benito  Willard,  and  he  was  absent 
at  his  rancho  on  the  frontier. 

Satirically  he  recalled  his  own  boastful  words 
to  Don  Jose"  Antonio  months  ago,  "I  am  a 
soldier  and  a  gentleman."  At  present  his  condi 
tion  was  almost  that  of  a  pauper.  Suddenly  he 
thought  of  Marshall,  and  his  frequent  whimsical 
references  to  his  hidden  wealth,  and  in  spite  of 
his  predicament  the  lieutenant  smiled.  With  the 
thought  of  the  frontiersman  came  the  memory 
of  the  missive  a  soldier  of  Fremont's  had  handed 
him  as  he  left  the  Cahuenga.  In  the  excitement 
of  the  morning  he  had  forgotten  to  open  it. 
Hurriedly  unfolding  it,  he  read : 

"Mv  DEAR  JOHN: 

"I'm  kinda  sorry  I  kaint  stay  an'  see  the  weddin',  but  an  old 
grizzly  like  me  wud  be  out  of  plaiz  among  them  swell  Arillo 
folkses. 

"  I  thought  ye  mought  be  aneedin'  some  money.  Sech  things 
like  weddins  cost  a  lot,  they  say.  Look  in  the  northeast  corner 
of  the  ole  bull  ring  and  ye  '11  find  a  few  thousands  in  coin  and 
nuggets  and  gold  dust.  '  Twuz  bankin'  it  that  made  me  wear 
the  Black  Matador  costoom. 

"It  was  this  I  wanted  to  tell  ye,  John.     This  ole  country  is 


430  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

just  plumb  full  of  the  yalla  stuff,  specially  in  the  hills  up  north. 
Per  God's  sake  don 't  tell  any  one  till  the  treaty 's  signed.     The 
Lord  bless  ye,  John,  you  will  hear  of  me  agin.     That 's  all  this 
time.    The  rancho  and  the  white  boss  can  wait  for  awhile. 
"Yours  truly, 

"JiM  MARSHALL. 

"P.  S.  Whose  the  other  fellah  playin' Matador?  Twarn'tme 
helped  ye  get  away  from  the  pueblo  last  summer." 

"Juan,  what  hast  thou  there?"  queried  the  girl, 
with  all  a  lover's  privilege  now  fully  established. 

"That,"  replied  Carroll,  "is  my  final  passport 
to  Paradise." 

Gold  and  gray,  sunshine  and  shade,  checkered 
the  pueblo.  Dazzling  white,  the  adobe  walls 
threw  back  the  glare  of  afternoon,  in  sharp  contrast 
with  the  dark  roofs  and  the  cool,  inviting  spots 
of  shadow.  The  crowds  had  dispersed ;  the  streets 
were  empty.  Silent  and  peaceful  lay  the  sleepy 
city  as  on  the  day,  years  ago  it  seemed,  that 
John  Carroll  reined  his  horse  by  a  window  and 
looked  for  the  first  time  into  the  eyes  of  the  woman 
who  on  the  morrow  was  to  be  his  bride. 

"Mi  querida,"   he  whispered,   "it  was  all  a 
dream.     Sorrow,  grief,  fear,  danger,  dishonor,— 
all  are  faded  away  like  shadows." 

Tremulously  she  leaned  toward  him,  and  as  their 
eyes  met  her  red  lips  whispered  in  reply:  "Surely 
are  they  gone,  my  Prince.  The  great  shadow  is 
gone, — to  threaten  us  no  more.  Vanished  forever 
is  the  shadow  of  the  sword." 


EPILOGUE 

GOLD !      GOLD !      GOLD ! 

T  TARDLY  was  the  ink  dry  on  the  treaty  of 
•*-  -*•  Guadaloupe  Hidalgo,  which  gave  California 
for  all  time  to  the  Anglo-Saxon,  than  Jim  Mar 
shall  made  good  his  boast  made  to  John  Carroll 
on  the  battlefield  of  the  mesa.  The  news  of  the 
"accidental"  discovery  of  a  gold  nugget  in  a 
mill-race  where  now  stands  the  little  town  of 
Coloma  went,  as  he  had  prophesied,  "ricochet- 
ting"  around  the  world. 

To  the  west  coast  they  came,  across  the  arid, 
Indian-infested  plains,  and  by  the  fever-reeking 
Isthmus  of  Panama,  the  flood  of  forty-niners, 
the  somber-faced  sons  of  New  England  side  by 
side  with  genial  men  of  Cavalier  stock  from 
the  tidelands  of  Virginia, — not  they  alone,  but 
the  bold,  the  aspiring,  the  venturesome  of  all 
nations,  lured  on  by  the  magic  shimmer  of  the 
precious  metal.  But  on  Jim  Marshall  fortune 
ceased  to  smile.  Other  men,  more  selfish  and 
unscrupulous,  wrested  from  him  the  fruits  of  his 
discovery  and  his  hoardings  of  years,  and  though 
a  grateful  state  granted  him  a  pension,  he  died 
alone  and  forgotten  in  his  cabin  at  Coloma,  his 
dream  of  a  "white  hoss"  and  a  rancho  unrealized. 

431 


432  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

For  many  years  Don  Jos6  Antonio  Arillo 
remained  one  of  the  foremost  figures  in  the  life 
of  the  pueblo.  With  honor  and  dignity  he  served 
his  country  as  mayor,  as  judge,  and  in  the  legisla 
ture  of  his  native  state.  His  unswerving  rectitude, 
kindliness  of  heart,  and  unfailing  courtesy  ever 
held  for  him  the  love  of  his  people,  and  soon  won 
for  him  the  respect  and  confidence  of  the  newly 
arrived  Americans. 

But  ever  dear  to  his  heart  were  the  ways  of  the 
past.  Men  there  are  yet  living  who  have  seen 
him,  on  many  a  day  in  the  early  seventies,  riding 
his  horse  up  Main  Street,  clad  in  all  the  colorful 
garb  of  the  past, — laced  trousers,  gracefully 
drooping  scrape,  broad-brimmed  sombrero  bril 
liant  with  silver, — his  steed  prancing  and  curveting 
proudly  as  if  conscious  of  the  worth  of  the  burden 
it  bore.  Many  a  drowsy  summer  afternoon 
would  he  foregather  in  the  patio  of  the  Pico  Hotel 
— that  had  sprung  up  at  the  corner  of  the  plaza — 
with  his  comrades  of  the  past,  Don  Andreas  Pico, 
Don  Augustin  Alvaro,  Don  Manuel  Garfias,  Don 
Francisco  Cota,  and  many  others.  There,  with 
many  a  laugh  and  sigh,  would  they  fight  over 
again  the  battles  of  the  hopeless  cause. 

The  years  have  passed  in  their  silent,  ceaseless 
march.  A  new  century  with  its  ever-increasing 
marvels  is  upon  us.  Larger,  greater,  and  grander 


EPILOGUE  433 

than  its  brave  defenders  ever  dreamed  is  the 
pueblo  of  Our  Lady,  Queen  of  the  Angels. 

But  the  land  about  is  strangely  changed.  No 
longer  are  the  long  brown  swells  and  wide-flung 
mesas  bare  and  treeless,  for  everywhere  the  droop 
ing  pepper  tree  and  towering  eucalyptus,  im 
portations  from  Peru  and  Australia,  are  seen  in 
groups  on  the  hillsides  and  skirt  the  valleys  with 
green.  Vanished  are  the  cattle  and  horses  that  in 
countless  thousands  grazed  on  the  broad  acres  of 
the  big  ranches — now  the  sites  of  busy  cities  set 
in  far-reaching  fields  of  rich  alfalfa,  or  orchards 
where  the  dark  green  orange  trees  or  spreading 
walnuts  stand  in  serried  rows. 

But  here  and  there,  in  city  and  in  field  alike, 
the  wandering  tourist  finds  unexpectedly  the 
fast-crumbling  ruins  of  an  old  adobe.  Often, 
quite  often,  he  may  chance  to  hear  from  stately 
men  and  dark-eyed  women  not  the  guttural 
utterance  of  the  recent  Mexican  immigrant  but 
the  musical  and  sonorous  roll  of  the  old  Castilian 
speech. 

Few  indeed  of  the  descendants  of  the  genie  de 
razon  are  left  in  the  land  of  their  fathers.  To 
many,  disaster  came  with  two  dry  winters  of 
'6 2-' 63,  years  when  the  cattle  and  sheep  died  by 
thousands,  and  their  owners  sank  from  affluence 
to  poverty, — reverses  which  were  borne  with  the 
sublime  Christian  fortitude  and  calm  resignation 

28 


434  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

of  their  race.  For  others,  the  proud,  old-fashioned, 
confiding  honor  of  the  genie  de  razon  was  but  a 
poor  protection,  and  from  them  were  stripped, 
by  means  devious  and  dishonorable,  the  lands 
of  their  fathers.  Some  favored  few,  perchance 
by  the  guidance  of  kind  American  friends  who 
knew  the  new  ways  and  the  new  laws,  have  held 
fast  to  their  family  acres.  They  are  to  be  found 
to-day  holding  high  places  in  the  business  world, 
at  the  bar,  and  on  the  bench.  Hardly  may  you 
know  them  from  other  modern  men  of  the  present- 
day  world,  save  for  the  large,  full,  heavy-lidded 
eye  and  the  dignified  but  gracious  courtesy  that 
marks  their  speech  and  manner. 

As  proud  and  glad  are  they  to  call  themselves 
Americans  as  we,  but  first  of  all  are  they 
Californians — Calif ornians  of  the  Californians. 
But  to  this  day  their  lips  curve  with  scorn  when 
they  tell  the  tale,  as  their  fathers  told  it  to  them, 
of  the  harshness  and  treachery  of  Captain 
Archibald  Gillie,  and  their  eyes  will  flash  with  a 
pardonable  pride  when  they  speak  of  the  days  of 
the  hopeless  fight  when  lance  met  saber  at  San  Pas- 
cual,  or  the  wild  charges  at  the  Paso  de  Bartolo 
and  the  mesa.  Even  as  the  son  of  our  south 
land  holds  dear  the  memory  of  the  men  who  died 
in  vain  at  Manassas  and  Shiloh,  even  as  the  man 
of  Scottish  blood  clings  to  the  memory  of  ' '  Bonnie 
Prince  Charlie,"  the  last  of  the  royal  Stuart 


EPILOGUE  435 

line,  so  do  the  Calif ornians  of  Calif ornian  blood 
revere  the  memory  of  their  own  lost  cause. 

And  who  shall  say  them  nay? 

Perhaps,  dear  reader,  on  some  winter  day 
when  the  blizzards  are  shrieking  across  the  prairie 
wastes  of  the  Missouri,  and  the  snow  is  swirling 
madly  in  the  streets  of  far-off  Chicago,  a  kindly 
fate  may  find  you  in  the  balmy  winter  sunshine 
of  Los  Angeles. 

No  longer  is  it  the  sleepy  pueblo  of  the  past, 
with  bare  and  sandy  streets  bordered  by  adobes 
with  low  verandas.  Around  you  roars  the  life 
and  tumult  of  a  great  modern  city.  In  your  ears 
is  the  raucous  cry  of  the  newsboy,  the  honk  of  the 
automobile,  and  the  rattle  of  the  trolley  car. 
Perchance,  as  you  pass  the  north  end  of  the  great 
pillared  Federal  Building,  it  will  be  hard  indeed 
for  you  to  realize  that  you  are  standing  on  the 
very  spot  where  John  Carroll  crossed  swords 
with  Don  Jose  Antonio,  and  that  over  there 
across  the  street,  a  few  doors  north  of  where 
Commercial  debouches  into  Main,  stood  the 
west  gate  of  the  stockade,  where,  in  the  darkness 
of  the  night,  he  who  was  the  "Black  Matador" 
brought  the  message  of  a  sorrowing  girl  to  the 
man  she  loved — though  his  own  heart  ached 
the  while  for  very  love  of  her. 

There,  too,  stood  Carroll  and  his  men,  as  with 
bated  breath  they  watched  the  wild  race  up  the 


436  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

slope.  As  you  pass  on  toward  the  plaza,  between 
the  lofty  buildings,  you  can  glimpse  the  hill  up 
which  Marshall  and  his  men  dragged  the  gun, 
that  eventful  September  day.  But  of  the  ram 
parts  of  the  old  fort  not  one  trace  remains,  for 
the  hilltop,  now  smooth  and  leveled,  is  cumbered 
with  modern,  tree-embowered  homes.  But  you 
may  stand,  if  you  will,  on  the  very  spot  where 
Gillie  signed  the  shamefully  broken  treaty  with 
Flores,  for  a  flag-pole  marks  the  place.  And  from 
above  the  yawning  tunnel  at  your  feet,  you  may 
look  down  at  the  courthouse  door,  where,  broken 
and  battered,  stand  the  cannons  he  treacherously 
rolled  into  the  water  at  San  Pedro. 

But  if  you  would  peep  into  the  past  as  far  as 
you  may,  go  some  quiet  Sunday  morning  to  the 
ancient  plaza,  where  you  will  hear  the  old  bronze 
bells,  cast  in  far-off  Spain  two  centuries  ago,  pour 
forth  their  mellow  call,  as  they  did  that  Sunday 
morning  so  many  years  ago  when  Lieutenant 
John  Carroll  first  looked  into  the  lovely  face  of 
Loreto  Arillo. 

Before  you  lies  the  plaza,  across  which  Don  Jose 
Antonio  Arillo  dragged  his  clanking  chains,  but 
there  is  now  a  fountain  in  the  center,  circled  by 
spreading  palms  and  wax-leaved  magnolias.  In 
vain  will  you  look  for  the  homes  of  Arillo  and  Don 
Augustin  Alvaro,  but  the  house  of  Dona  Chonita, 
from  which  Loreto  hurried  the  night  Carroll 


EPILOGUE  437 

struck  down  the  drunken  straggler,  and  from 
which  Carroll  set  out  on  his  ride  to  find  Fremont, 
still  stands  in  this  year  of  our  Lord,  1914 — a 
pathetically  lonesome  figure  amidst  the  towering 
blank  walls  of  the  brick  warehouses  about  it. 

And  if,  perchance,  you  cross  the  river,  you  will 
not  see  the  wide  sweep  of  green  vineyard  and 
cornfield  that  met  the  gaze  of  Gillie's  beleaguered 
men  as  they  looked  down  from  their  hilltop,  but 
instead,  a  vast  tangle  of  railroad  yards,  frowning 
factories,  gas  tanks,  and  dingy  warehouses.  But 
if  the  day  is  clear,  you  can  see  to  the  south  the 
Paredon  Bluff  (now  topped  by  the  pointed 
towers  of  the  Catholic  Orphanage),  behind  which 
Servolo  Palera  rallied  his  little  army,  still  lifting  its 
bold  head  above  the  now  empty  river  bed.  And 
farther  beyond,  but  hidden  from  your  view,  is  the 
broad  mesa  where  on  that  fateful  afternoon  of 
January  9,  1847,  the  Sons  of  Ancient  Spain  fought 
their  last  gallant  fight  against  the  aggressive  and 
relentless  Anglo-Saxon. 

Along  the  devious  route,  toward  Pasadena, 
far  beyond  the  city's  bounds,  where  marched  the 
defeated  and  disheartened  Californians,  now 
glide  the  noisy  trolley  and  silent  motor  car.  On 
the  very  spot  where  burned  their  last  camp  fires, 
hurrying  figures  follow  the  curving  flight  of  the  golf 
ball  across  the  links,  while  from  the  top  of  the  San 
Pasqual  Hill  look  down  the  red-roofed  towers  of 


438  THE  DONS  OF  THE  OLD  PUEBLO 

a  great  tourist  hotel.  And  near  to  the  foot,  half 
hidden  in  the  pepper  trees,  is  the  adobe  where 
the  men  condemned  to  an  ignominious  death  by 
Commodore  Stockton  held  their  last  despairing 
councils,  and  where  Don  Jesus  Pico  came  in  the 
night  with  his  message  of  mercy. 

Gone  are  the  live  oaks  and  the  open  parks  to 
the  west,  toward  the  arroyo,  save  for  here  and 
there  a  lonely  straggler  left  in  street  or  yard. 
But  on  the  high  arroyo  hill  they  cluster  as  of 
old.  Where  once  the  cattle  strayed  in  fenceless 
freedom,  paved  streets  and  rows  of  brown 
bungalows  now  sweep  around  the  foot  of  the  hill 
toward  the  modern  Pasadena. 

By  the  arroyo's  side  the  giant  oak,  a  mighty 
monarch  of  the  past,  stands  yet  in  its  lordly  mag 
nificence  as  it  stood  that  far-off  night  when  Arillo 
and  Vanuela  fought  in  the  moonlight  beneath  its 
branches  and  the  unhappy  Carroll  clung  breathless 
to  the  limb  above.  Over  the  arroyo  still  hangs 
the  Devil's  Rock,  with  its  yawning  cave,  high 
above  the  sunken  gardens  of  a  kindly  millionaire. 

But  when  fading  day  dyes  the  western  sky  with 
bold  bands  of  orange  and  crimson,  and  the  deep 
rich  indigo  of  the  mountains  softens  and  melts 
into  a  filmy  gray  violet,  the  old  theater  of  love 
and  hate  seems  one  again  with  the  semblance  of 
the  past.  As  the  green  hillsides,  the  dark  forms 
of  the  trees,  and  the  sharp  outlines  of  the  buildings 


EPILOGUE  439 

merge  into  the  deepening  duskiness  of  coming 
night,  over  all  the  graying  world  there  breathes  a 
brooding  melancholy.  Brushing  the  cheek  with 
a  touch  of  fairy  lightness,  from  the  distant  gulches 
of  the  mountains  comes  a  long-drawn  sigh,  as  if 
the  ancient  soul  of  Nature  were  sorrowing  secretly 
for  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


THE    END 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  l««t  date  stamped  below 


University  of  California  Library 
Los  Angeles 

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OCT16 


